Schoolgirl Crush
by Flaignhan
Summary: These things pass. So they say.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I'm _still_ supposed to be packing up my shiz and moving it to my new place. And yet, I find myself addicted to Sherlolly-writing. This is my first multichapter Sherlock. It's exciting and terrifying. I hope you like it. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The first time she sees him, they are in a lab. It's a school thing. Gifted kids from the not so great schools get the opportunity to go and use the equipment and the posher schools. She's basically a charity case. And my _God_ how she wishes he would rattle her money tin.

"All rather exciting this, isn't it?"

Molly looks to her left, to see a round little boy, who barely looks fifteen. His cheeks are rosy, and with one podgy index finger he pushes his spectacles up his nose and blinks heavily.

"Yeah..." Molly says vaguely, her gaze falling back onto the older boy on the other side of the classroom. "Really exciting."

"You'll be joining our upper sixth class today. They're preparing for their _A levels_." The teacher, Mr Fitzwilliam, who is wearing a three piece suit that probably costs more than Molly's entire school, uses a tone which one would usually reserve for talking to small children. "Some of _you_ might be lucky enough to sit these exams in three years' time, I'm told you've all shown yourselves to be rather bright sparks!"

The boy rolls his eyes, and even at a distance, Molly can see what a shining shade of crystal blue they are. She exhales slowly, and every cell in her body wants him to turn his head, just a few degrees, and lay eyes on her.

Mr Fitzwilliam is still talking, except now he is also scribbling on the board with chalk. The sixth formers all lean forward, scrawling notes intensely. All except for one.

She wonders what his smile is like.

* * *

"So then, if you're all ready to get started, we'll pair you off with our group, and you can work together. I expect you've never had equipment quite as advanced as this, but don't worry, I'm sure my class will be ever so helpful." Mr Fitzwilliam says the last three words pointedly, as though detention awaits if they're anything but the most helpful people on the planet. He looks to his clipboard, his eyes scanning down some sort of list, before he looks up at his class.

"Holmes!"

The boy turns his head at last, and Molly gets to see his face in full. His cheekbones are razor sharp, his face rather haughty, and he has a coldness to him that Molly can't help but find appealing. It's like he's made of ice, and quite frankly, Molly would let him sink her ship any day of the week.

"Sir?"

Molly's teeth plunge into her lower lip. His voice is so deep, so _mature_. It's like he's some sort of Shakespearean actor, and Molly would quite happily listen to him all day long. She'd certainly let him get his tongue around _her _soliloquy.

"Where is your _tie_?"

It's only now that Molly notices the boy's open shirt collar. She can see the hollow of his neck, a small bare triangle of chest, and the edge of a collarbone. She swallows.

"The dog ate it."

"_Holmes_..."

"Sir?"

"You do not _have _a dog."

"Oh," the boy, Holmes, says, an expression of mild surprise resting on his angular features. "Well it must have been the cat then."

A couple of the boys start to snigger. Mr Fitzwilliam opens his mouth, closes it, takes a steadying breath, and finally says, index finger raised, "Now look here, Holmes..."

"When were you planning on telling Miss Asanda that you're not _actually_ going to leave your wife for her?" Holmes asks. The room falls deathly quiet, and Mr Fitzwilliam goes pale.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says in a quiet voice, suddenly becoming very interested in his list. Holmes' tie remains unworn, and Molly can see it sticking out of the pocket of his blazer.

"Now then, let's see, let's see..." Mr Fitzwilliam has developed a rather croaky throat, and he's blinking rapidly, trying to focus on the list on his clipboard. "Roach?"

The round boy who had spoken to Molly raises his hand. "Yes sir?"

"You'll be working with Michael today, on the bench at the end there. Wave to him Michael."

A tall boy with an arched nose raises a hand lazily, and Roach hurries off to join him.

If there is a god, and Molly is willing to bet her entire Take That discography that there isn't, but if by some miracle there _is_, she would be very very _very _fucking grateful if she were -

"Hooper? _Molly_. Molly?"

Molly raises her hand, her lips pressed together nervously.

"Molly, you poor thing, our only lady here today and you're working with _Holmes_."

Molly vows to go to church every Sunday, _religiously_, even. She apologises to the most wondrous, most merciful, most absolutely bastarding brilliant God in the universe, and all the while has to refrain from jumping up and down and punching the air with joy. She approaches the bench where Holmes sits, and finally, he glances over. It lasts all but half a second, and then he looks away again. Bored.

Molly isn't phased. He probably assumes she's some stupid schoolgirl. She _is _a stupid schoolgirl really, but she hides it better than most. That's why she's here. That, and she knows a thing or two about science.

While the rest of groups are arranged, Molly quietly pulls out the stool next to Holmes and sits down, placing her bag under the desk. She is suddenly very conscious of how tight her tie feels around her neck, and how warm she feels with her blazer on. She slips it off, and hangs it on the back of the stool, careful not to stare at Holmes too much in the process. She's very aware of how close she is to him - she can smell him. The boy doesn't look like he's ever sprouted so much as a bit of bum fluff on his chin, and yet, he is wearing aftershave. Expensive aftershave. And not only that, but he has been careful in his application of it. Unlike the boys Molly knows, he hasn't chucked it all over himself, to mask the smell of B.O., he has applied it after a shower, and used it sparingly.

Molly's concentration is broken when a board is dumped onto her desk by Mr Fitzwilliam. Shortly after, a dead toad is slapped onto it.

"If you're going to faint would you be so kind as to do it _out_side. I really cannot abide hysterical teenage girls."

Molly's stomach drops. Of course. He's a wanker. She should have seen that one coming. Her jaw juts out stubbornly, and she snatches the dissection kit from Holmes' hands, pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, and picks up the scalpel.

"Oh we have a show off..." Holmes says lightly. "Then by all means, be my _guest_. Take the lead."

Molly doesn't wait a moment longer. She slides the shiny blade vertically along the abdomen of the toad, and pulls the skin apart to get a better view. Holmes is silent, and Molly proceeds to remove every single organ from the toad, all of them in perfect condition. On the other benches she can see chunks of liver and fragments of lung, but if she wanted, Molly could put everything back in the right place, stitch the toad up, and no one would ever have known he'd been emptied.

Molly pulls her gloves off and sets them on the bench. She turns to Holmes, and is surprised to find he is watching her. She'd have expected him to have grown bored by now, but he actually holds eye contact with her.

"Holmes, could you at least have let Miss Hooper have a turn for ten seconds?" Mr Fitzwilliam is standing in front of the bench, a resigned look on his face. "I know you like to have things a certain way, but this is a _learning process_. You get this every day, let her make the most of her opportunity."

"She did it."

"I'm sorry?"

"Miss _Hooper_, carried out the dissection single handedly. I didn't get a look in."

"This was all you?" Mr Fitzwilliam asks, his eyebrows shooting halfway up his forehead in surprise.

"Yes sir," Molly answers, dragging her eyes away from Holmes' perfect little patch of chest.

"It's a very advanced standard," he says, adjusting his glasses and leaning forward to peer at her handiwork. "Very advanced indeed. Have you done many dissections at school?"

"One, perhaps two. But never on a whole creature. Individual organs, hearts, livers, maybe eyes." Holmes is speaking quickly, and Molly's mouth is half open, her answer halted in her throat. "No, Miss Hooper has read many a book on anatomy. On autopsies in particular. She wants to be a pathologist when she leaves school, and, from what I've seen in the last ten minutes, there is no reason why she won't be."

Molly blinks. "I didn't tell you any of that."

"Holmes likes to think himself above the rest of us. He calls it deduction. I call it autism." Mr Fitzwilliam strides off to another bench, leaving Molly open mouthed. She turns back to Holmes, who has his hand outstretched.

"Sherlock Holmes."

She takes his hand and shakes it. "Molly Hooper," she says quietly. "How did you...?"

"It wasn't difficult," Sherlock says, and before she knows it, he's jabbering away, speaking so rapidly that her brain can barely keep up. He points out the Patricia Cornwell novel, the corner of which is peeping out of the opening of her satchel. An NHS careers leaflet is plucked from her pocket, and the circles drawn around the key subjects required for pathology are gestured at lazily before it is cast back at her. The knife, she learns, is far sharper than those she would find in a normal school, and yet she applied just the right amount of pressure - a knowledge she won't have gained from experience, but from knowing the theory of the process inside out.

When he finishes, Molly's hormones are raging, coursing through her like fire. She wants to slam him against the wall and get to know those full lips intimately, wants him to grip her tightly, so tightly it hurts. She wants to taste him, wants to see those cold eyes glaze over with desire, wants it to be like the movies, where the lights are dim and everything is perfect. She's sure though, if it came to it, she could deal with the harsh fluorescent strip lighting of the lab.

"My card," Sherlock says.

Molly takes the small business card balanced between his index and middle fingers, and inspects it.

"Sherlock Holmes...consulting detective...What, so you're like...a private detective?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Molly frowns. Normally, boys grow out of this sort of thing by the age of seven. And here Sherlock is at seventeen, still playing pretend.

"Get many cases?" Molly asks, humouring him.

"_Mrs_ Fitzwilliam was my latest. She's already got an offer for the house. He doesn't know it yet though..."

Molly turns to look at Mr Fitzwilliam, who is wandering between the benches. He looks up, and notices both Sherlock and Molly watching him, and immediately looks away. His hand moves to his shirt collar, and his index finger tugs at it, trying to loosen it.

"Guilty as sin..." Sherlock murmurs.

Molly turns back to him. After all, he holds far more aesthetic appeal than Mr Fitzwilliam.

"You're amazing," she breathes.

Sherlock's lips twitch into a smirk.

"Keep that card safe, Molly. This will not be the last time we work together."

Molly's heart skips in her chest and she grins.

This detective will never need a warrant to search her. _That_, she is sure of.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Thank you everyone for such a lovely response to the first chapter! Was a lovely surprise to see so many of you respond. Thanks very much. :) In other news, I finally packed and have made it into the new house. But my new house has a writing room, which means I've got an entire room in which I ought to do stuff (and won't, unless there is something more important that I have to be doing). Anyway, not sure when the next chapter will be up. I'm internetless but I am devastating my data allowance on my phone by turning it into my own personal hotspot just for you guys, hahah. Oh well. Anyway, enough rambling, let me know what you think of this. :)

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**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

Molly pushes her food around her plate with her fork, killing time until her mum will finally permit her to leave the table. While her left hand holds the fork that occasionally spears through a piece of pasta, her right hand is under the table, absent-mindedly turning over a small business card. The ink is starting to rub off from where she's handled it so much, the black turning to grey, the gold leaf flaking off the raised lettering.

Her mum's asked her about it several times, but Molly won't show her. She'll laugh, she knows she will, because she doesn't understand him. There's no way her mum could comprehend his brilliance without witnessing it first hand. There's no phone number on the card, though Molly's not sure she'd call him even if there were. In fact, there's no information at all, other than his name. Apparently this is supposed to be enough to seek him out. Which is fine, she supposes. How many Sherlock Holmeses can there be in the world?

The doorbell rings, and Molly's mum jumps to her feet. "I'll get it!" She rushes off down the hallway and Molly tries to palm off some of her dinner onto her Dad's plate, but he's way ahead of her, tipping most of his into the bin before returning his plate to the table, a few spirals of pasta left, his fork resting against the outer rim of the plate.

Molly raises her own plate to tip some onto his but he laughs and blocks her with his hand.

"Not a chance."

Molly rolls her eyes and is about to make a dash for the bin when she hears footsteps coming back down the hallway.

"Molly?"

Her mum reappears in the kitchen and as she steps out of the doorway, Molly's heart leaps into her throat.

"This nice young man's here to see you."

Sherlock plasters on a smile (a fake one, Molly can tell easily). "Molly, how nice to see you again."

Molly stands up, grateful for the excuse to skip dinner. "Hi," she says breathily, and immediately scolds herself for being such a buffoon. He's not wearing his school uniform, but a dark pair of jeans teamed with a dress shirt. She doesn't know any other boys his age who dress as smartly as he does. It is now that she realises what a mess _she_ is in. She's still in her school uniform, her shirt unbuttoned at the top and half untucked, her skirt slightly twisted, and her tie is looped into a loose fat knot, about halfway down her chest. She looks like an extra from _Biker Grove _and she wishes, with all her heart, that she'd been given five minutes' warning. Even five seconds would have meant she could rake her fingers through her hair and straighten her skirt.

"Molly," her dad says with a frown on her face. "Who's this?"

"Er..." Molly starts, unsure of herself. "This is my...friend. Sherlock."

"And how old _is_ Sherlock, exactly?"

"I'm seventeen, Mr Hooper," Sherlock answers politely. Molly bites her lip, dreading what's coming. But she needn't worry, because Sherlock is good. Far too good. "Molly tells me you're a keen golfer," he says. She's said no such thing, but she smiles anyway. Her dad looks pleasantly surprised, and it is not long before Sherlock has a mug of tea in front of him and is discussing swing technique.

"I always prefer the five iron myself," Molly's dad says. "Feels a bit steadier, you know?"

"So!" Molly interrupts, before she dies of boredom. She has discovered, to her disappointment, that there is only so long one can marvel at cheekbones for. "What did you want, Sherlock?"

"Ah, yes, I'd quite forgotten."

Molly knows full well that he hadn't. How he can shift from being icy cold to an amiable, bumbling teenager is beyond her. He does it well though. Very well.

"I was wondering if you'd care to come out with me this evening. Maybe a walk into town or...something."

Something. Molly's insides churn with excitement at the prospect of _something_.

"Yeah," Molly says, "great." She stands, and tries to ignore the smile on her mum's face, while attempting to keep her own grin at bay. It's difficult, and so she disappears into the hallway to grab her coat. When she turns around, Sherlock is standing barely inches away from her. Molly's gasp catches in her throat, as Sherlock leans in and whispers in her ear.

"I have a case."

Molly's eyes close as his lips brush her ear, and she can feel them stretching into a smirk. She doesn't care about a damn case. She'd much rather be spending her time getting to the bottom of him. Or getting anywhere with him.

But maybe, just maybe, this is an excuse to see her again. To get her alone, away from her parents and other overly protective eyes.

"See you later!" she calls, and opens the front door.

"Have fun!" her mum calls back, while her dad grumbles something Molly can't quite make out. She doesn't let it delay her though, and soon she and Sherlock are halfway down the road, and she can barely keep herself from bouncing along next to him.

"So, this case," Molly says, her feet moving quickly to keep up with Sherlock's long strides. "Who is it? _What_ is it?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replies. "Mr Barnham, middle aged, offered a lot of money so he's not going to the police for a very specific reason. Either it's something he doesn't want his wife to know, or something he doesn't want the police to know."

"And where are we going now?" Molly asks, her eyes fixed on him, rather than the path ahead of her. He gives her a sidelong glance and smirks, just a little.

"We're going to meet him."

"What d'you need me for then?"

"Potentially undercover work. There are some things which people are more willing to tell a girl…"

"Why don't you dress up as one?" Molly asks, trying not to giggle. Sherlock's only answer is to stare at her with disdain for a moment, before focusing his attention on their route once more.

When Molly finally tears her eyes away from him to look ahead (something which was very difficult for her to talk herself into) she notices a group of girls, a hundred yards away. They're smoking, despite wearing their school uniforms; an act which screams 'yeah, I'm not old enough to smoke, but what are you gonna do?'. They are plastered in make up and one of them catches sight of Molly and elbows the other girls.

Before Molly knows what is happening, her hand is in Sherlock's, and he is guiding her swiftly past them. Their jaws drop, their eyes the size of dinner plates, and before Molly and Sherlock have taken ten steps past them, they are already gossiping behind cupped hands.

As soon as they round the corner, Sherlock drops Molly's hand and she can't help but feel like she's been punched in the stomach. Of _course_ he'd only done it for effect. That's the only reason he ever does anything. She was an idiot to think that maybe, just maybe, he was holding her hand because he actually _wanted _to.

"That should keep them talking for a while," Sherlock says at last. "And I'm sure on Monday morning everyone will have questions for you."

"So why d'you do it?" Molly asks, arms crossed. "Why bother if it's just going to cause me hassle? Unless you just enjoy -"

"It will cause you considerably _less_ hassle than the teasing you'd endure if I _hadn't_ done that. 'Ooh, Molly, was that your _boyfriend?'_" Sherlock waves his hands in the air, as though he thinks that this is how teenage girls behave, and Molly can feel her frown smooth out.

"I suppose," she says, letting her hands drop back to her sides. "But it doesn't matter what they think, does it?"

Sherlock shrugs, and they say no more on the subject. Soon they veer off towards the new estate, and Sherlock must have memorised a map, because Molly is lost after a few corners, the snaking roads with the same large, yellow-bricked houses dotted around turning into an endless maze. Eventually, when Molly has started to wonder if Sherlock really _does_ know where he's going, they reach a set of gates. Sherlock presses the buzzer and it is a few seconds before a gruff voice answers.

"Who is it?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replies clearly. "And...assistant."

Molly frowns. Assistant? Since when? And why such a lowly, subservient title? The only thing Molly would gladly assist Sherlock in would be getting off that shirt. The electric buzz of the gate pulls her out of her thoughts, and Sherlock pushes that pedestrian gate open and gestures for Molly to go ahead.

She steps over the threshold and looks around. There is a dark green Jaguar parked on the gravel driveway, a few yards from the front door.

"Someone was in a hurry," Sherlock mutters.

"What?"

"The gravel," he says, pointing to the doormat, which is covered in the stuff. "Nearside rear wheel, he skidded. That car has not been _parked_, it has been _dumped_."

"It's his though, isn't it?"

"Oh yes, but any man with a car that new and that pricey, any man in _this town_ anyway, would never put the paintwork at risk like that."

Molly can see now that there are flecks of white all around the wheel arch, and wonders what else Sherlock has noticed. Before she can ask him, the front door opens, and a harassed looking man with thinning grey hair is standing before them. He takes one look at Molly's school uniform and opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Sherlock cuts him off.

"Allow me to introduce my assistant, Miss Hooper. She's just been doing some undercover work for me."

"In a school?"

"No, but it's amazing what people will say around children, just because they assume they're not interested."

Barnham nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "You'd best come in then, quickly now, before anyone sees."

Molly is intrigued, though at the same time, the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Before today, before Sherlock, she never would have dreamed of going into a stranger's house. Particularly not if they wanted her to get inside before there were any witnesses.

They are guided into the lounge, and Sherlock sniffs, quite loudly. It's not one of the most pleasant things he's done today, but it is by far the most curious. Even more curious than the hand holding. Molly inhales deeply, and notices that there is a slightly rotten edge to the air, as though someone has forgotten to take the bins out.

"Please, have a seat."

Molly is about to sit when Sherlock puts his arm around her back, preventing her.

"We're in a little bit of a rush," Sherlock explains. "Miss Hooper has an appointment very soon. If you could explain your situation in one hundred words or less?"

Molly edges closer to Sherlock, because he _still_ hasn't let go of her, and he's given her a very imminent get out of jail free card. She doesn't know why she needs it, but she doesn't like the idea that Sherlock thinks she does.

"My wife," Barnham says, "She's missing."

"Have you notified the police?"

Barnham shakes his head. "She was...she was embezzling money from the business. I'd rather keep the police out of things."

"How long?" Sherlock asks coldly.

"How long what?"

"How long has she been _missing_?" Sherlock asks exasperatedly. Barnham blinks stupidly before answering.

"A day, day and a half maybe?"

"What was _precisely_ the last time you saw her?"

"Yesterday at breakfast," Barnham answers. He blinks, as though waiting for Sherlock to say something, but continues when he is met with silence. "Probably around eight thirty."

"Probably?"

Molly is startled by the detachment in Sherlock's tone. He's practically dripping with sarcasm, and she wonders whether it's one of his tactics. Though what it could possibly gain him (other than a broken nose) she's unsure of.

"Yes," Barnham replies. "Probably. I don't know, I didn't time myself. But we usually have breakfast around eight thirty."

"And what did you eat?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Breakfast_," Sherlock says sharply. "_What_ did you _eat_?"

"Scrambled egg on toast," Barnham replies. "Is that relevant?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock says, his hand finding Molly's. "In fact, I think that's given us quite enough to think about."

With that, Molly is dragged from the house and out of the front gates. Sherlock walks faster than ever, ignoring her complaint that there is some gravel stuck in her shoe.

"Sherlock," she says, "What the _hell_ is going on?"

"Too easy, far too easy."

"What is?" Molly asks, wrenching her hand from his grip so she can try and get some of the feeling back in it. He is five steps ahead before he realises she has stopped, and he turns, frowning at her while she empties several tiny stones from the inside of her shoe.

"He gets a kick out of it, I've seen it before."

"Out of _what_?"

Suddenly, Sherlock is slap bang in front of her, his face inches from hers and she thinks (stupidly) that he might kiss her. But no. He is talking, rapidly.

"Look, you smelled that house. I know you did, no matter how hard you tried to disguise it."

"Yeah but -"

"You probably didn't catch the faint smell of sweat? Didn't see the patches under his armpits?"

"No, I -"

"You were too focused on the _other_ smell."

"Yeah, it smelt like he hadn't taken his bins out for ages."

"Yes," Sherlock says, shifting his head from side to side, looking up towards the sky, weighing up her answer. "And no. More like he hadn't taken the bin _bags_ out yet. The bin bags which hold the body of his wife and her lover."

"_What_?" Molly splutters, taking a step back from Sherlock. "What are you saying?"

"He killed his wife."

"Because she was embezzling money and sleeping with someone else?"

"Don't be ridiculous. _Barnham_ was embezzling, but if the money goes into a joint account, how will anyone be able to prove that it _wasn't_ the missing wife and lover?"

"Yeah but why did he call you? Surely he realised you'd work it out?"

Sherlock takes her hand again and starts walking, Molly following, slightly confused. "People like him like to think they're clever. They like to show off."

"A bit like you do?" Molly asks.

"Worse," Sherlock says decisively. "Much worse. He was testing me, and he expected to win. He's got about ten minutes before we call the police. Let's see how clever he is now."

It is a few minutes before Molly is struck by another question. "What was the big deal about the scrambled egg?"

"He had some on his sleeve. Obviously hadn't changed it from the previous day. Murder rearranges your priorities you know."

"But what's it got to do with the case?"

"It was the only time he told the truth."

Molly opens her mouth to ask more questions, but as they near a phone box and Sherlock starts rummaging in his pocket for change, Molly decides that perhaps there have been enough questions for today, and so she contents herself with holding Sherlock's hand while he makes the call. She tries not to think about the corpse of Barnham's wife, soon to be discovered by the police, although it's difficult. She knows she needs to get used to think kind of thing if she's going to be a pathologist, but a dead body shoved in a cupboard and a dead body in a hospital, on a slab are two entirely different kettles of fish.

"Come on," Sherlock says, hanging up the phone. "Home time."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This is the product of being a Billy-No-Mates on my birthday. But I'm going out in a bit so I thought I'd best post before drunkenness and the inevitable hangover. And just to address something that BroadwayB mentioned in her review - in my head this could be canon. Could be. Because I'm working towards canon. It's pretty safe to bet that in Moffat and Gatiss' heads it's not their canon, but until they give us some wonderful teenage Sherlock, I'm afraid they're going to have to deal with my interpretation. So. Hope you like it. Let me know what you think!

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's raining. Which is perfect really, because Molly has left her bus pass in her jeans, and the driver wouldn't allow her to get on with all the other kids from her school, even though she was wearing exactly the same school uniform and expression of discontent.

"If you don't have your pass, you can't get on."

Molly had thrown him the filthiest look she could muster before turning around and stepping off the bus. Deciding to cut across the park however, was not the best idea she'd had. While it had been cloudy, but sunny when she'd begun her journey home, within ten minutes it was chucking it down. She is soon soaked, her hair clinging to her face, her school shirt practically see-through. She wraps her blazer tightly around herself, trying to regain a little dignity and warmth, but it has little effect. When she reaches the underside of the bridge that crosses the canal, she pauses to wring her hair out, water splattering down to the rocky ground and she works her way through it.

"Oi! Hooper!"

Molly looks up, and sees three boys standing in one of the recesses of the bridge. She notices three orange glows, and knows that they're trying to be cool. Molly isn't cool by any means, but she's not stupid enough to try and gain cool-dom by killing herself.

"Come over here, we'll warm you up!"

Molly recognises the voice and rolls her eyes. "Get lost Danny," she replies half-heartedly. She's not in the mood, nor will she ever be, but particularly not today, when she is so very miserable.

Danny tosses the last of his cigarette to the ground and grinds it into the dirt with the sole of his shoe. He exhales a stream of smoke and approaches. Molly keeps walking, knowing that if she stops, she won't have what could be described in any capacity as a 'good time'.

"Where you going?" Danny asks, stepping in front of her.

"Home," Molly replies shortly, dodging him. Danny throws his arm out and pulls her back round to the front of him.

"Why don't you wait for the rain to ease off? Come and have a smoke with us."

Molly pushes his hands away from her and dodges him again, but Paul and Eddie are there, blocking her path.

"Come on," Danny says softly, his hand closing around her upper arm. "Just a quick smoke. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Cancer."

Danny laughs. "I forgot you were a science nerd."

"You don't have to be a science nerd to know that, it's written on the packet you idiot."

Danny narrows his eyes, and Molly gathers that despite the frequency of him being labelled an idiot, he's still not entirely happy with it. Paul and Eddie are sniggering stupidly behind Danny, but soon they close ranks around her.

Molly doesn't try and make any move to escape. She knows this is sport to them. Knows that nothing horrific will happen. They're just bored and looking to pass the time until the rain stops. She won't struggle, she won't panic, and she won't indulge them. She's smarter than all three of them put together, and she can outwit them blindfolded. She knows that. She is just on the verge of taking up Danny's offer of a cigarette, when she feels a hand on her backside. It gropes her painfully and she spins round.

Eddie is guffawing.

"If you do that again," Molly raises her finger, but Eddie slaps it out of the way.

"What? What'll happen? Nothing."

"You'll be sorry," Molly says, fighting to keep her voice steady. She shoves Paul, who is distracted by his lighter, and he lands on his backside. She steps over him and hurries off, not looking back.

From behind her she hears Danny call, "Leave it lads, she's way too frigid to be any fun anyway."

By the time she gets home, Molly isn't sure how much of the water on her face is actually rain. She takes a hot bath, swallows a few mouthfuls of what her mother tells her is shepherd's pie, and then retreats to her bedroom for the rest of the night.

She wishes Sherlock had been there. Never mind holding hands in front of catty girls, (the news of Molly's older boyfriend had spread like wildfire and she was, for approximately three hours, the most interesting person in the school) she would much rather he'd held her hand under that bridge.

Danny wouldn't have uttered a word if Sherlock had been there.

* * *

The following day in registration, Molly sits quietly at the back. There are three empty seats on the right hand side of the room, and Molly is glad that Danny and his trolls are absent. Her joy doesn't last long however, because the classroom door is pushed open and the three boys trudge in.

The class erupts into whispered gossip at the sight of them, and Molly's jaw hangs open. All three are sporting fairly severe facial injuries - black eyes, split lips - the bridge of Danny's nose is cut and swollen, with a few stitches keeping the skin together.

Eddie has a cast on his wrist.

More than that, each of them is carrying a bunch of flowers.

Danny leads the way towards the back of the classroom, and they file in front of Molly's desk.

"Sorry Molly," Danny mumbles, and lays the flowers in front of her.

"Sorry Molly." Paul also sets down his flowers.

"Sorry Molly." Eddie places his flowers down too, and the three of them turn and walk quickly over to their desks, their eyes fixed on the plastic coated table top before them. Danny's back is oddly straight, and Molly knows he is trying to _not_ hear everything that's being speculated about them.

Molly looks at the flowers. They're cheap posies from the local supermarket, but she doesn't mind. The gift is in the broken wrist, the bloodied noses and the bruised faces. Danny's hand moves to rub his side, and through his school shirt, Molly can see a set of bandages wrapped tightly around his torso.

The fractured rib is the icing on the cake, and the flowers, well, the flowers are simply a way of humiliating them. The flowers are a gift from _him,_ she knows it, and so, on her lunch break, she hurries home to put them in a vase with some water, and leaves them on her bedroom windowsill.

When she is back in classes that afternoon, she finds herself surrounded by girls.

"Molly!" Siobhan hisses from the end of the table. "Is it true your boyfriend beat up Danny and his mates?"

Molly smiles, biting her lip.

"I heard he beat all of them up at once!" Ashleigh adds, folding her arms and looking at the other girls for their reactions. "All three of them!"

"Well you know he broke Eddie's arm, don't you?"

"Wrist," Molly corrects automatically. "His wrist."

"Whatever," Robyn says, waving the information aside. "And Danny nearly cried in French earlier after he sneezed."

"Fractured rib," Molly adds.

"_And_," Kelly butts in, "I was talking to Leanne in the playground and she said that Paul keeps wincing whenever he sits down."

"Tail bone," Molly says mildly, her curiosity heightened. She rather hopes she can claim that particular gold star for herself. Or perhaps she merely 'loosened the lid' as it were, and Sherlock finished the job.

"Well anyway, none of them'll say what happened last night. Your boyfriend must have really gone to town on them."

"Well..." Molly says uneasily. "He's very...thorough."

"Oh yeah?" Robyn asks, a dirty smirk spreading across her face.

Molly can feel the heat rise in her cheeks. "Not like that!"

"Oh," Robyn says disappointedly. Molly can almost feel the atmosphere drop at that.

"That's not to say...I mean, we just haven't..._look_ -"

"I dunno why you're waiting about," Ashleigh says, "I've seen him, he's _well_ fit."

Molly sighs. She knows that. She knows that all too well. But the more she gets to know Sherlock, the more she realises that romance just isn't his thing. He is protective, yes. He holds her hand when she's vulnerable. Or rather, he allows her to hold _his_. But in her heart of hearts, she genuinely cannot imagine a day when Sherlock would greet her with a kiss and tell her he's missed her. He's just not like that. She also knows (and it makes her feel sick when she forces herself to think about it) that he could have any woman he wants. There is no way he'd choose a _girl_ for anything like that.

They have common ground. That's all.

"How old is he again, Molly?" Siobhan asks.

"Just turned eighteen," Molly answers. Her voice is quiet, and she tries to read what Mrs Jackson is writing on the board, but she cannot concentrate. Her thoughts are stuck on Sherlock, and she knows that she is going to have to get used to functioning while she thinks about him. Otherwise, her life will very soon be grinding to a complete and utter halt.

"He goes to that posh boarding school in Guildford," Ashleigh says. "Saw his uniform."

Molly lets the others continue with their discussion while she jots down some notes on the Treaty of Versailles, and flicks to the appropriate page in her text book, which she swears is older than the treaty itself.

* * *

He is waiting for her, just outside the gate, and Molly pretends not to notice Ashleigh, Siobhan, Kelly and Robyn hanging around just a few feet away.

"Where are your flowers?"

"At home," Molly says. "I put them in some water."

"Good," Sherlock replies, taking her hand. They don't walk towards the bus stop, but instead in the direction of Molly house. She looks at the sky warily. It's clear, and so she doesn't argue. Plus, if it rains, she wouldn't object to Sherlock warming her up by the canal.

"Have you been following me?"

"It's preferable to General Studies."

"Oh," Molly says, trying not to smile.

"And it's the perfect opportunity to work on my stealth skills. I take it you didn't see me?"

Molly shakes her head.

"I was never more than fifteen feet away from you."

There is something in this that makes Molly grin. It's like having her own personal body guard, though she wishes he'd stepped in sooner. Or even just joined her on her walk home so she'd have had some company.

"Did you break Paul's tail bone?" she asks. "Or did I?"

Sherlock frowns. "I don't recall a tail bone...it may have been a side effect, but it's more likely that you did it."

Molly beams. "Excellent."

"You handled yourself rather well," Sherlock says. "Stayed calm. Chose the right moment to escape. I'm very impressed."

Molly shrugs. "I didn't break Eddie's wrist though. I wish I could have done that."

"You could have," Sherlock replies, looking down at her. "You know enough about anatomy."

"I don't have the strength to -"

"You know enough about anatomy," Sherlock repeats. "Brute strength isn't everything you know. Knowledge is the difference between punching someone in the stomach and punching all the air out of someone. What's important is knowing how to get someone on the floor with the least amount of energy. I didn't break a sweat yesterday."

"I bet you _never_ break a sweat," Molly says glumly. "There's no way I could do any of that stuff."

Sherlock huffs. "You're far too self-deprecating."

Molly doesn't reply. She doesn't have an argument for that, and knows, that in not replying, she is simply proving him right.

* * *

She slides into bed that night, tired but happy. When she rests her head on the pillow, she frowns. There is something hard under it. She lifts up her pillow and her eyebrows rise in surprise. It's a book - _Taekwondo for Dummies. _Molly laughs, and opens the front page. On the inside front cover, is a handwritten message in enviably neat script.

_For the days when I have Chemistry. _

_SH_

Her heart swells in her chest before her brain interrupts. How the hell did he get it under her pillow? He didn't come into the house, and he can't have had the book on him when he came to meet her - it wouldn't have fit in any of his pockets. The only remaining possibility is that he left it there _before _meeting her. But in that case he would have had to second guess an entire conversation.

She thinks back to their first case, to the conversation they'd had in her bedroom afterwards while her mother had made them cocoa. (Cocoa is safe. Anything more solid and it's time to worry.)

_"How d'you do it? How d'you work it out in five seconds flat?"_

_"Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true." _

Molly goes to sleep that night, having eliminated the impossible. It's improbable, highly improbable in fact, but it's the only remaining solution.

Sherlock Holmes is magic.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Because you're all so lovely, I've decided to post this now. I was going to wait until I'd actually made a start on chapter five, but chapter five can go hang (I'm currently _not_ painting my lounge and am actually writing chapter nine). Anyway, I'm back at work tomorrow, which leaves little to no time for writing during the week, so don't expect much before Saturday. I will try and update but I'm starting a new project which basically means I'm going to be working until 2am pretty often. That aside, thank you for all your lovely reviews and your birthday wishes. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for your support with this story. I'm blown away by the response. :) Oh and one more thing, Molly ventures into Sherlock's world this chapter, rather than him venturing into hers. It is significantly darker for that. Just a warning.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's told her mum she's staying at Caroline's tonight. She doesn't like lying, but she can hardly tell her that she's taking a fifty mile train journey to go and stay with an eighteen year old boy at his boarding school where guests, especially female ones, are _strictly _forbidden.

It's dusk when the train pulls into the station, and rain is hammering at the windows. He meets her on the platform, doesn't utter a word in greeting, and they climb the steps up to the station. He takes her hand when they exit, and her heart hammers in her chest, despite the fact that she knows he's only doing it because the streets are busy and he does not have any desire to look for a lost teenager today. As soon as they find themselves on a quiet pathway, the street lighting growing less and less frequent, he drops her hand, and shoves both of his in his pockets.

After a mile or so, Molly is getting tired. The strap of her bag is cutting into her shoulder, her legs are so cold that they're numb, and her hair is soaked, water droplets dripping down the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades and down to the base of her spine. Her teeth are chattering, though Sherlock does not comment on it. Instead he pulls out a cigarette and lights it, taking a deep drag on it.

"How much longer?" she complains, hoisting her bag onto her other shoulder, to try and even out the discomfort.

"Not long," Sherlock mutters. He's right. As usual. They round the corner, and Molly can see the impressive building that is Sherlock's school. "Come on." He holds out his hand and she takes it, without question.

He guides her around the edge of the grounds and they enter the building through an ancient door that leads to a deserted hallway. They climb a wooden staircase, and Sherlock practically throws her into an alcove on the landing when a group of third years round the corner. They take one look at Sherlock and hurry down the stairs without looking back. Sherlock nods to Molly and she follows him again, to the door at the end of the corridor.

"My private room," Sherlock says, opening the door and allowing her to step inside ahead of him. "The best thing my father has ever done for me."

Molly smiles, and sets her bag down on the handsome leather armchair that sits beside the fireplace. Jealousy burns in her heart for a moment or so, but then she remembers Sherlock's inability to co-exist with the rest of the population with any sort of ease. Being from a wealthy and distant family has a price. One that Molly would not be willing to pay herself.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asks.

"Starving," Molly says.

"Good, I had my dinner brought here. It should still be warm." He gestures to the small table on the far side of the room, on top of which there is a large silver dome, covering what Molly assumes is Sherlock's dinner. She can't believe that this is an everyday occurrence for him, that he can just toss orders around and have them seen to without having to utter so much as a please or a thank you.

"Don't you want it?" Molly asks.

"Not tonight."

"Tomorrow then?"

"There'll be a different dinner tomorrow. Good grief, how poor _is _your school? What is it? One meal a week and a starter if it's Christmas?"

"We never get starters," Molly says, frowning. "It's a school, not a restaurant."

"What do you have then?" Sherlock looks genuinely baffled, and Molly can barely believe his ignorance. It's almost endearing, but it's also slightly worrying. He knows so little of the world, the _real world_, that is, that she's not sure he'd last five minutes in her shoes. Not that he'd be able to fit into her shoes. She's only a five.

"Burgers, chips, pizza..." Molly shrugs. "All sorts really."

"All sorts of _rubbish_," Sherlock retorts. "Sit," he says, pulling out the chair.

Molly obliges.

"Eat." Sherlock lifts the lid from the dinner and Molly's jaw drops when she sees it - soup to start, and not just any old soup, proper home made soup. Soup with real bits of real things in it. The main is a seafood risotto, with prawns as big as Molly's fist scattered amongst the rice. And, for dessert (he gets dessert, the lucky bastard) there is a steaming chocolate pudding covered in a gleaming thick sauce. Raspberries are scattered around the edge of the pudding and Molly cannot stop herself from picking one up, dipping it into the sauce, and popping it into her mouth.

"Oh my God..." she mumbles, closing her eyes and sliding downwards in her chair. "I hate you."

"I could always eat it myself," Sherlock says, a slight edge of threat to his tone.

Molly sits up straight and opens her eyes immediately. He can _try_ and eat it, but as far as she's concerned, he won't get a look in. She picks up her soup spoon and begins to eat, while Sherlock practically throws himself onto his bed and opens a book on pathology.

Molly swallows a mouthful of soup and looks up at him. The book is new, she knows that because she had asked about its release in the local W H Smith a few weeks ago. It's a sizeable thing, and Sherlock is nearly at the end of it, though she knows he can't have had it more than four days. It's also very expensive, though she knows that's not an issue for him. She had almost fainted when the woman in Smith's had told her the price.

Molly turns her attention back to her soup, her heart aching. She could get her dream job _so _easily if her family had the same sort of wealth as the Holmeses. She could go to university and her parents would foot the bill without batting an eyelid. She could have all the expensive textbooks her heart desired, _and_, she wouldn't have her science lessons in a prefabricated building in the school playground, she would have them in a proper lab. They would have bunsen burners, and no one would try and set her hair on fire because even if they'd all been raised as complete snobs, they'd still been raised with _some_ manners.

By the time she finishes her meal, she realises that private school is not for her. Well, it's actually _perfect_ for her, but if she were to have a three course meal every night (and by God she would) she'd be the size of a small house.

She goes over to join him on the bed, perching herself on the edge, not wanting to invade his personal space. (Actually, that's absolutely what she wants to do, but she knows how bitchy he can get about that sort of thing, and so she refrains, the lovely girl that she is.)

Eventually, he snaps the book shut.

"Done." He thrusts it into Molly's hands and she takes it. "You can have it."

"What?" Her eyes are as wide as dinner plates, and as soon as she realises that he mouth is ajar, she snaps it shut.

"You can have it. I'm finished with it," Sherlock repeats, his words taking on a staccato style.

"But won't you want to use it again in the future?"

Sherlock frowns at her. "No. I've read it. Why would I need to read it again? It's all in my head."

Molly looks down at the book's shining cover, and frowns. She wants this book, more than anything, (well, maybe not more than she wants to throw herself at Sherlock right this second, but more than anything _reasonable_) but she doesn't feel as though she can take it. It's so expensive and he's not just lending it to her, he's just giving it to her, as though it's an old cassette of a band he's since grown out of.

"Molly..."

She looks up at him, and tries to remember to breathe when his eyes bore into her own.

"It's yours now."

"Thank you," she says softly, hugging it to her chest. "I love it."

"Excellent," he says, as though they've just finalised some sort of business deal. He leans over the edge of his bed and takes out a tin from under his bedside cabinet. He opens it, pulling a strip of cloth from inside. He begins to tie it tightly around the crook of his arm, and Molly watches him silently.

"Are we doing an experiment?" she asks, her eyes fixed on his veins, bulging under his skin. There are tiny needle marks dotted around, and she wonders just how many experiments he's done on himself.

Sherlock pulls a needle from the tin, and removes the cap with his teeth. He then takes a small brown bottle and jams the needle through the top, slowly pulling up the plunger, his eyes never leaving the scale on the syringe. "In a manner of speaking, yes..."

Molly's stomach feels heavy. She's not sure she likes where this is going. She doesn't know what's in that brown bottle, and even though Sherlock appears to know what he's doing, she doesn't feel like it's right.

"What is that?" she asks, her voice not much louder than a whisper. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

He plunges the needle into his arm and his thumb pushes the plunger steadily downwards. He groans and falls back onto his pillow, the needle still in his arm.

"Sherlock?" Molly can feel the panic rising inside of her, as though she's drowning on the inside. She pulls the needle out of him and rips off the tourniquet. She throws it all back in the tin and tosses it across the room.

Sherlock doesn't say a word. His hand reaches for her, and when it finds her, he pulls her down next to him, and she lays with her head on his chest. His heart beat is slow, steady, and his muscles are relaxed. Molly doesn't know what to do, and so she holds onto him, trying not to think about what is staring her in the face.

"What's it like?" she whispers. She needs to understand. She needs to know how a man with so much intelligence can go so badly astray, can make so many poor decisions.

"Peace," Sherlock murmurs. "It's the only way I can switch off."

"Couldn't you have had a bath instead? Or watched some telly?"

"Not enough. I'm far too complex for that to be remotely effective."

"How do you feel? Right now?" she turns her head so she can see his face. He has never looked so calm, so relaxed, so _happy_. Her heart aches for him. Her mind, on the other hand, wants to know the reason for the soft smile on his lips.

"Glorious," he says. "Fucking glorious."

Molly lays her head back down on his chest. She skews her lips from side to side as she thinks, the cogs turning and turning in her brain. She wishes she was switched off right now. She stares into the fire, the orange flames the only source of light in the room, and watches it get smaller and smaller until just a few glowing embers remain. She's not sure of the time, but Sherlock hasn't moved, nor made a sound for a long while. Her head rises and falls slowly with his chest, and she can still hear his heartbeat, so she knows she doesn't need to panic just yet.

"Molly?"

"Yes?" Her voice is soft, but she still feels as though she is shattering the quiet with a hammer.

"Promise me you'll never touch the stuff."

"I'm not _stupid_."

Sherlock chuckles softly. "I know. But just promise me."

"I promise."

He rubs her back, and Molly tightens her hold on him. She's scared, and even though she's sure he'll still be alive in the morning, she's terrified that one day, she will be running a tox screen for Sherlock's autopsy, and she'll find a cause of death in those results that won't surprise her one little bit.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **My lounge is still the same colour. No surprises there. Daily updates from now on, because I'm a chapter and a bit and some rewriting away from finishing the whole bloody thing. Twelve chapters in total, so don't panic. I'm not about to wrap it up now. Far from it. XD Thanks again for all the lovely reviews. Your enthusiasm feeds my enthusiasm. Hope you enjoy this one.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

The summer holidays are long and dull. Molly can't wait to go to sixth form. Apart from the obvious advantage of being allowed to wear her own clothes, she will be studying science and maths and _nothing else_. No history, no geography, no P.E., she can't wait.

She's anxious to get her GCSE results as well. She is desperately curious about them, and goes through various stages of panic during the course of each day. Sherlock, meanwhile, is awaiting his A level results. Annoyingly, he will get them a week before Molly gets hers, and even more annoyingly, he doesn't seem to give a damn about them.

"I'll get into university regardless," he says. They're laying on the grassy hill on the outskirts of the park while the sun beats down upon them. Molly's managed to develop a mild tan this year, something which has taken her and her parents rather by surprise.

"Because Daddy will see to it?" Molly teases.

"Basically," Sherlock says with a shrug, twiddling a blade of grass between his thumb and forefinger. "But I'll have gotten top marks anyway."

"Even in General Studies?"

Sherlock makes a disparaging sound and tosses the blade of grass away. "That's not a subject."

"You still get a grade in it though. And with the amount you skipped, you might have got an _E_."

Sherlock huffs, but doesn't respond.

"Imagine that, Sherlock Holmes - Maths, A, Further Maths, A, Chemistry, A, Biology, A, General Studies, _E_."

Sherlock sits up, and Molly squints at his silhouette. "You're not worried are you?" she asks.

"Of course not," he snaps. "Like I said, I'll be getting into university anyway."

"But if you got low marks in _General Studies,_ if you'd answered a question _wrong_..."

"There's no such thing as a wrong answer when the subject matter is _general_."

Molly closes her eyes and rests her head on her arms. Even with Sherlock clearly having a bitch-fit over his comedown, she's rather enjoying the day. She hears the flick of Sherlock's lighter, and soon the scent of freshly mown grass is tainted by nicotine and tar.

He settles himself back down on the grass next to Molly, and finishes his cigarette in half the time it usually takes. Molly doesn't know what to say, and so she reaches out, brushing his hair away from his eyes. He doesn't shove her hand away, and so she takes it as a sign that he's craving some contact, but is just too proud to ask for it.

He lights another cigarette, but this time, his first drag is slow and long. Molly's fingers are still in his hair, gently playing with a single lock, while he exhales a cloud of smoke up into the air.

The sunshine highlights the gauntness of his features, how hollow and dark his eye sockets have become. His normally steady hands are shaking as he brings the cigarette to his lips again.

"When are you next going to take it?"

He shrugs. "Tonight. Tomorrow night. Whenever I next need it."

_Need it_. That wasn't a phrase Molly was keen on. _Want it_, she'd have been able to dismiss, but _need it_, no... He'd more or less admitted his dependency to her, and as a man who is often so careful with his words, he will have noticed this too.

"It's not good for you," Molly says lamely, propping herself up on her elbow so she can look down at him. The shadow of her hair casts his face in shade and he opens his eyes. He looks nervous, and Molly hates it.

"I know." He takes another drag on his cigarette, but Molly doesn't give up, not yet. She's no drugs expert, and she's no therapist. But she does care about him and that, she thinks, is what counts.

"You're doing it too often."

"I know."

"So _stop_."

He laughs. "Yeah, okay. I'll stop. Just like that." He clicks his fingers and Molly scowls.

"I'm not saying it'll be easy -"

"But you _are _still talking."

Molly ignores the dig. It's not him, she knows it's not. She has a mantra that she repeats to herself, every time he lashes out, verbally. _It's the comedown, it's the comedown, it's the comedown._

"Why don't you just...do it less often? Once a week?"

He stubs out his cigarette and reaches into his pocket for the pack. Molly closes her hand around his, preventing him from having yet another cigarette.

"Oh so I'm supposed to give up smoking _as well_, am I? Are you going to deny every bit of pleasure I get in life?" he snaps, and tugs his hand out of hers. It takes him three goes to get more than a spark from his lighter, his hands are shaking so much, and Molly lies back down on the grass, her arms folded across her chest.

"Look," he says, after he has taken a few puffs of his cigarette. His hands are steadier now, just a little, his tone more relaxed. "It's not your problem. Don't worry about it."

"But I _do_ worry."

"It's not hurting you."

"Yes it _is_."

"Only because you worry. So stop it. Now." He says this with the same ease that Molly suggested he stop taking drugs, and now, she kind of gets it. She can't just _stop_ worrying about him. She's not built that way. She's not like him. She cares about other people. He doesn't even care about himself, let alone anyone else.

"Do you even want to stop?" Molly asks, her voice so quiet it's almost lost in the gentle breeze.

"Not really."

Molly stands up and starts to walk down the hill. She does not look back, and Sherlock does not follow her.

She doesn't know what to do.

* * *

It's breakfast when the letter arrives. It is a simple brown envelope with a first class stamp, and Molly's name and address printed on a smart white label.

She never gets post, and so when her mother hands it to her, she drops her spoon into her bowl of cornflakes and tears at the top of the envelope. The paper inside is thick and expensive, and when Molly unfolds it she sees an ornate illustrated crest, printed in the top right hand corner.

_St Christopher's Sixth Form College._

Molly frowns. She's heard of St Christopher's, but has no clue as to why they might be writing to her. She drops her eyes to the few short paragraphs printed on the letter and reads them quickly.

_Dear Miss Hooper,_

_We would like to congratulate you on your exemplary exam results, and as such, offer you a position at our school. We were most impressed by your application, and, having met the entry criteria, we look forward to having you join us._

_Induction will be held on 12/09/1998 and you are to arrive in the entrance hall at 9am. Staff will be on hand to guide you. _

_Enclosed is a reading list and time table for your chosen subjects. Should you have any questions, please do not hesitate to get in touch with our main office. _

_Once again, congratulations, and we look forward to meeting you._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Sybill Hawkins._

_Head of Admissions._

Molly stares at the letter, and then passes it to her dad. He squints at it through his reading glasses, holding it at arm's length.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs. "Why didn't you tell us you applied?" He passes the letter to her mum and she shrieks in excitement.

"Oh how _wonderful!_" She throws her arms around Molly's neck, and Molly almost chokes on her cornflakes. "Why _didn't_ you tell us you applied, hmm? Come on!"

"Because I didn't apply," Molly says quietly.

Her dad sets down his newspaper and looks at her over the rim of his glasses. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_," Molly says, "That I _didn't_ apply."

"You think they've scouted you?" her dad asks quietly.

"No, that's not what I think." Molly folds her arms. She knows exactly what's going on here, and she's not sure she likes it. Why it matters to _him_ where she gets her education, she doesn't know. But now, she's going to a posh college and has a reading list that undoubtedly costs _hundreds_ of pounds, which is money her parents don't have. They'll never let her turn it down, but they'll struggle, and she doesn't like that idea. She doesn't like it one little bit.

She takes a look at the reading list and at the sight of the first title, the knot in her stomach loosens, just a little. She has it already. It's sitting upstairs on her bookshelf with all the other thick science tomes that Sherlock has passed onto her.

As her eyes scan down the list, she realises that she owns every title, all except the last one. She's sure her parents can manage to purchase just one chemistry book, and so slowly, she starts to forgive him.

The doorbell rings again, and for a moment, she thinks it might be him. But it's far too early and he's still probably out of his head. She gets up and answers it anyway.

It's a courier, with a large, heavy looking package. Molly signs his sheet of paper and brings the package inside.

She can tell before she's even unwrapped it that it's a book. And if she knows him at all, she knows what the title on this book will be.

She rips off the brown paper and is proved correct. Her face breaks into a smile.

He's good. He's very _very _good.

* * *

Before he's even spotted her, she strides up to him.

"Why did you apply to St Christopher's?" she demands.

"Hello, how are you Sherlock? I'm fine thanks, Molly, how are you? Oh just _spiffing, _Sherlock, and all the better for seeing _you._" He speaks into the air as though Molly isn't there, his brow contorted into a frown.

"Well?" Molly asks in her firmest don't-mess-with-me voice.

Sherlock looks down at her. "_I_ didn't apply for St Christopher's," he tells her. "_You_ did."

"I did _not_!"

He throws an arm around her shoulder, guiding her away from the train station. "Yes you _did_," he says casually. "Come on now, you remember..."

"No, I _don't _remember," Molly says sulkily, crossing her arms.

"Well what are you complaining about?" Sherlock asks her. "The fact that you're going to the best sixth form college within a fifty mile radius that you don't have to shell out nine thousand pounds a term for? Or the fact that _I _was the one who realised they'd take you, and all the while you were quite content to go to fucking _Bridgemere_ or whatever that ghastly blot on the landscape is called."

"There's no need to be like that," Molly says quietly. "No need at all."

"For once, I do something nice. Something _selfless_. I sat there all night forging your application and you got _in_, and now I've done something _wrong_?"

"Why didn't you just say 'Molly, I think you should apply to St Christopher's?"

Sherlock sighs. "_Because_, you'd have found a million and one reasons not to."

"How long have you been planning this?" she asks. "Because you've been passing me books from the reading list for _months_."

"Have I?" Sherlock says mildly, apparently ignorant of this fact. "I thought I'd just been passing you things you might be interested in."

Molly scowls. She hates it when he plays dumb, and hates it even more that she didn't notice for months that he was up to something. For all she knows, he might be up to something right now.

"You _did_ accept your place, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," Molly replies. "I'm not stupid."

Sherlock fixes her with a look. The sort of look that causes her to shove him roughly in the arm.

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand. "There was a robbery at Solitaire's a few days ago. I want to check out the crime scene."

"So that's the only reason you came here? For a case?" Molly asks, her hand paused on its way to taking his.

"I haven't had anything since Tuesday. Three days. And I think I can make it to four."

Molly takes his hand and trots along happily beside him. He's almost back to his old self. And she loves it.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Well, after a flurry of lovely emails overnight, I thought I'd post this before I go to work. Late. Hahaha.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

"Hooper!"

Molly jerks awake, wiping the slight trace of drool from her lower lip.

"Sir?"

"Heat transfer. Equation. Now."

Mr Isherwood's words drop into place in Molly's brain and she whirs through her memories of equations.

"One over k..." she trails off, the formula just beyond reach.

"See me after," Mr Isherwood says primly. "Gasforth, how about you?"

Molly props her chin up on the heel of her palm, flicking through the text book idly. She glares at the equation when she finds it, realising she knew it all along. Gasforth reels off the answer smugly, and Molly makes a mental note to punch him at the first reasonable opportunity.

Sleep deprivation, she has learned, does not make for a happy Molly.

The rest of the lesson whizzes by with a series of on the spot questions. Molly manages to get the next two directed at her correct, and before she knows it, Mr Isherwood is dismissing the class. He fixes Molly with a stare that quite plainly says _stay_ and she slouches her shoulders, not looking forward to _another_ lecture from one of her tutors.

"Molly," Mr Isherwood begins, taking Molly by surprise. She had no idea he knew her first name, no idea he even cared what _any _of their names were, unless they sounded good when he was barking at them. "Is everything all right at home?"

"Fine," Molly says blearily. She can feel a yawn expanding inside her, and tries to disguise it by inhaling through her nose, but it doesn't fool Mr Isherwood.

"When did you last get a full night's sleep?"

Molly shrugs. "Haven't got time for sleeping," she says in what she hopes is a casual sort of way. "Sleep is for the weak."

She wants to kick herself after she says it. She's sounding more and more like _him_.

"How are you handling the work? If you're stressed about it -"

"It's _fine_," Molly tells him, and he nods.

"Yes...I didn't think it was that. All of your coursework is...well, it's the highest standard out of the whole class. It always has been. I'm just worried because the only way you can go is _down_. And by the looks of things, you're heading towards trouble. That's the last thing you need before your exams. And Edinburgh only take the best, you know. The _best_."

"I'm fine, I just..." Molly doesn't know what to say. She wants to tell him everything. Wants to tell _someone_ everything, but she can't. She just _can't_. Sherlock would be in so much trouble, and she can't do that to him.

"We have counsellors here," Mr Isherwood says softly. "If you'd feel more comfortable talking to them. All confidential. I can book you an appointment if you need me to."

"No," Molly says. "No, it's fine. But..."

"Go on."

"How do you help someone who won't help themselves?"

"You can't," Mr Isherwood replies simply. "You just can't."

Molly leaves the classroom feeling no better for the conversation. If anything, she feels worse.

* * *

It is the same routine. Get the train into London. Change onto the tube. Get off at Angel. Simple. Exit left from the station and walk down, past the pub, past the music venue on the other side of the road, and keep walking until you've passed one, two, three, left hand turns. She turns down the next one, and walks twenty yards before turning onto a little pathway, leading to a front door.

She has a key. He gave her that a long time ago. Not for any sentimental reason, but because he can rarely drag himself out of bed to answer the door.

He has the whole lower floor to himself. The upstairs tenant has a separate entrance around the back of the house. Molly has never seen him, but he has heard him bring home all sorts of screechy women in the early hours.

Sherlock tells her that he's an alcoholic. As if by comparison that makes his exploits in the downstairs flat seem okay.

She hangs her bag up, along with her coat, and walks along the hall until she reaches the bedroom door. It is ajar, and she can see him on the bed. Still. Her heart stops in her chest, as it does every time, and the first thing she looks for, the first thing she always looks for, is the colour of his fingertips.

They're pale. But they're certainly not blue.

She breathes.

The room stinks, and so she crosses to the window and pushes it open, desperate for some fresh air. She glances back over to the bed and he is yet to move. Yet to notice she's even there.

She could be anyone for all he cares.

She gathers dirty laundry into her arms until she can actually see the floor again, and then loads it into the washing machine, putting it on a hot wash. There is a pile of dirty plates in the sink (from experiments, she notes, not from eating) and so she pushes up her sleeves and starts to wash them.

Once she's done, she dries them off and puts them away. She left them on the draining board last time, and when she returned, they were still there, caked in splatters of something black. She checks in on him, and can see his chest moving slowly as he breathes.

She turns away, opens the fridge, almost vomits at the amount of mould growing on something she thinks was once a tomato, and empties the contents into the bin. Sighing, Molly strides into the bedroom and over to Sherlock, whose eyes are half closed in hazy content.

"I'm going to the shops," she says loudly. "D'you want anything?"

He groans. She taps the side of his face firmly with her hand.

"Wake up, now."

"Cigarettes," he murmurs. "Take my wallet..." he rolls over, his knees moving upwards as he curls into a foetal position.

"All right," Molly says softly. She touches his bare shoulder. He's freezing. She folds the duvet over on him and his fingers make a vague attempt to curl around it. She shakes her head and leaves him to it, satisfied that he's awake enough to _not_ choke on his own vomit.

* * *

"That everything?" the cashier asks. "Or d'you want twenty L&B as well?"

"Yeah," Molly says. "Please."

"You're too good to him you know, my darling," he tells her as he takes the cigarettes from the shelf behind and packs them into the bag with the rest of Molly's purchases. "Far too good to him!"

"Tell me about it," she replies weakly, forcing a smile.

"How is Mr Sherlock, anyway?"

"Same as ever."

"Ah."

Molly hands him a twenty pound note and he takes it, passing her a handful of change moments later.

"Still," he says brightly. "He'll be fine, long as he's got you. He's a lucky man!"

"See you," Molly says trying to hold her smile in place. She shoves Sherlock's wallet back into her pocket and takes the bag from the counter. She exits the shop with the ding of the bell and trudges back towards Sherlock's flat, door key in hand.

She's halfway through cooking dinner before he calls out to her, and she wipes her hands on a tea towel before going to his bedroom.

"Did you get my cigarettes?"

"Yes," Molly says through gritted teeth. "They're in the kitchen."

"Fetch them for me, will you?"

"If you want them," Molly tells him, fighting to stay calm. "You'll have to come and get them yourself."

"Ugh," Sherlock groans. "Not this again."

"Go and have a shower," Molly says. "You stink."

Sherlock exhales loudly and doesn't respond. He stretches out on the bed, and when Molly realises that she'll get nothing more from him, she returns to the kitchen.

She doesn't know why she does it. That's what she tells herself at least. Deep down, she knows exactly why she's here every other night. Knows why she forfeits sleep in order to keep up with this balancing act that she's only just coping with.

She'll tell herself he's not worth it. But her heart always argues. And her heart always wins.

* * *

"This is rather good," Sherlock says, cutting up his new potatoes. His hands move quickly, and Molly knows he is trying to mask the shaking. She doesn't know why he tries to keep up this façade. She's seen him at his very worst, and this...well this is pretty good. At least it will be until he turns nasty.

He usually turns nasty.

"Glad to see you haven't been taking any cooking lessons from your mother."

Molly stiffens, but says nothing. He's not so far gone he doesn't notice, however. There's still a glimmer of his deductive prowess in there somewhere.

"What?"

Molly shakes her head.

"Tell me."

"I told you _months ago_."

"Well clearly I wasn't listening."

Molly pushes her food around her plate, her appetite disappearing in seconds. She can feel the goosebumps raise on her arm, even though it's quite warm in the flat. Her leg jogs under the table as she tries to come up with the words.

"Molly?" His fork is suspended in mid air, his eyes on her, his voice soft.

"She left," Molly says, looking everywhere but at him. "Met a waiter when she was on holiday with Dad...I get postcards every now and then, but there are only so many ways to photograph Crete..."

"Oh, is that it?" Sherlock says. "No wonder I didn't remember. It's not like she's dead."

"Are you even _human_?" Molly asks in disgust. "She's _abandoned_ me. She betrayed my _dad_."

"Betrayed your father, yes. Abandoned you, no. She sends you postcards, so obviously she's trying to keep in touch. She knows you're not exactly forgiving of her actions so postcards are a good way to let you know she's thinking of you without pressuring you into replying. She'll be back within three years, and she'll ask your father for forgiveness, once she's realised that the waiter isn't the romanticist she was led to believe. Don't worry. It'll be fine."

Sherlock resumes eating, and slowly, Molly starts on her own dinner once more. Nothing he has said makes the situation right. Nor does it make it any easier for her to forgive her mum. His confidence that things will be okay in the end, however, is infectious. She can't help but believe it too.

* * *

"Does your father know you're here?"

"Yeah," Molly murmurs, her head resting against his chest. Sherlock turns the page of his book, and his arm falls automatically back around Molly.

"Does he mind?"

"No. He thinks we're...a thing. He accepts it."

"That's good of him," Sherlock muses. The weight around Molly's shoulders lifts, and she hears the turn of another page. He reads far too quickly. It's most distracting when she's trying to relax.

"He doesn't know you're a..." Molly stops talking before she says the wrong thing.

"Say it..." He's daring her, but she won't rise to it. She'll only get spite and bitterness in return.

"He doesn't know you're addicted."

"Junkie," Sherlock says quietly. "Two syllables. Not exactly taxing, even for someone with _your_ level of intellect."

Molly ignores him. She doesn't even have to say the word and _still_ she gets hassled. She turns her silver bangle on her wrist, purely to keep herself busy. After all, it doesn't take much to occupy the mind of someone with _her_ level of intellect.

Despite his sniping, his arm still returns to her shoulders after every turn of the page, and Molly knows that he just can't help it. The nastiness always comes, and it's something she's learned to deal with.

She falls asleep on the sofa with him, but wakes the following morning in bed next to him. He's fucked himself up royally, that's plain to see. But somewhere in there, under the ice and the sarcasm and the apathy, is the Sherlock she knows and loves.

Somewhere, very deep down, is the man that still cares. And he's screaming to be heard.

* * *

"Post for you," her dad says, filling the kettle with water.

Molly looks down at the table and sees a letter with her name on it.

"Postmark says Edinburgh," he dad adds. "Tea?"

Molly nods and picks up the letter, her stomach twisting itself into knots. This letter could change her life. Or it could dash her hopes and send her packing to King's College. Which is all fine because King's College is not a _bad_ university. And it's got the convenience of being in London which means she'll never be too far away from her dad and...Sherlock.

She tries not to think about him as she slides her finger under the paper, breaking the seal. She tries especially hard not to think about the night he'd spent going through her application with her. Nitpicking every single word of her personal statement before, at last, he let her put it in the envelope and seal it.

They had posted it the following morning on the way to the shop. He'd needed some cigarettes, naturally.

She unfolds the single page, and one word stands out from all the others, slapping her in the face.

_ACCEPTED_.

Several thoughts rush through her mind, like a freight train, refusing to stop so she can actually consider them. Edinburgh is five hundred miles away. She couldn't just pop back for a weekend. It'd be far too expensive. She'd hardly ever get to see Sherlock, and her dad...her dad would get so lonely. She's all he has left these days.

Edinburgh seems like something that's meant for somebody else. Somebody who doesn't have any responsibilities.

Someone who isn't in love with a man who nearly kills himself every single night.

Her hands are working before her brain is, tearing up the letter into minuscule pieces and letting it flutter down onto the kitchen table. Her dad turns around, watching her destroy the letter.

"Didn't get in," Molly says with a sad smile.

"_Bastards_. Don't know what they're missing!" Her dad gives her shoulder a small squeeze, and Molly knows, however much it might hurt to think of the labs and the libraries now, that she has made the right decision.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **I've finished the story. Bar rewrites (drastic ones for chapter twelve). But I'm finished. I can go to bed. I can live a vaguely normal life again. And I'll post daily for you. (Although, it's not really been a day yet. Only 16 hours but...I don't mind if you don't mind.) Thank you for the lovely reviews. I do a lovely little secret dance whenever I get one.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

At least she has somewhere quiet where she can go to do her work. That is some consolation. He doesn't demand her attention in the way that her friends do, doesn't try and talk her into going to the pub when she's got a deadline, and doesn't distract her with episodes of Trisha. In fact, he doesn't do much at all, except lay there.

"Get to see my first proper autopsy on Monday!" Molly tells him brightly. He doesn't respond, he's too far gone, but Molly continues to talk to him because she's sure he can hear her. "Don't know what it'll be yet. Luck of the draw I suppose!"

Still no response.

Molly sighs and returns to her textbook, making notes on her pad, occasionally reaching over to take his pulse. Just to make sure. He worries her when he's this quiet. It's not like him. He needs a case, desperately, but Molly doesn't have the time to find him one. She's got to make notes on three chapters by tomorrow morning and she's got an essay due in for the end of the week, _and_ she's got to go and visit her dad at some point.

His phone starts to vibrate on his bedside cabinet, and Molly automatically reaches over him and answers it.

"Hello?"

"Miss Hooper?"

Molly frowns. "Who is this?"

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. My younger brother may have mentioned me. Or he may not."

"He's mentioned you," Molly says vaguely, recalling the name from conversations long since past. "How did you know it was -"

"How did I know that my brother's only friend in the world would pick up the phone if he was too drugged up to do it?"

"Oh."

"_Oh_," Mycroft repeats, his voice heavy.

Molly doesn't know what to say in response to that, but she doesn't have to wait long before Mycroft resumes talking.

"You are to tell my brother that he is on his _last chance_. A car will arrive tomorrow to take him to a facility where he will receive treatment for his addiction. All he has to do is get into the car."

"Okay," Molly says breathlessly, her heart pounding in her chest. This is it. This is _it_. He's finally going to get better. After all these years of moodswings and hours of silence, he is finally going to get back to his old self.

"Perhaps _you_ can talk some sense into him," Mycroft says. "Lord knows he'd never listen to me."

"Yes, yes I will," Molly says quickly, hurrying the conversation along so she can wake Sherlock up and tell him the good news.

Mycroft bids her farewell, and before Molly can return the sentiment, he has hung up. He is very different to Sherlock, but oddly similar. They share a directness that so called _normal people_ do not. They are both very adept at giving out orders, but, Molly supposes, that's something that comes with the privileged background.

She places her hand on Sherlock's shoulder and shakes him roughly awake. It takes a good deal of her strength to rouse him, and even when he cracks his eyelids open, she knows he won't process anything she says. There's a shine to his eyes that's like a barrier between them. She can't communicate with him when he's like that.

It doesn't stop her from trying though.

"Wake _up!_" She gives him a final shove but he doesn't react. He looks at her for a moment then closes his eyes once more. Molly kicks him in the leg but he pays her no notice.

She continues with her reading, turning her pages in the noisiest fashion possible. But of course, it has no effect. By midnight, her eyelids are heavy, and the words of her book are blurring together. She decides to call it a night and hopes, with all of her heart, that Sherlock will have come down enough by the morning for her to be able to shove him into that car.

* * *

"Molly."

She groans.

"Molly."

She opens her eyes. Sherlock's face is inches from hers, his eyes staring at her.

"What's the matter?" she mumbles, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

Sherlock shrugs. "Nothing."

"Well why did you wake me up then?" Molly says grumpily. She hauls the duvet up over her shoulders then punches her pillow into a more comfortable shape.

"Bored."

"Yeah well I was bored yesterday."

"You were here all day?"

"From half past two."

"Oh."

"Mycroft phoned."

"_Oh_."

"A car's going to come for you today."

Sherlock throws the duvet off of himself and gets out of bed. Molly sits up, wondering if she'll need to do any talking at all. Sherlock grabs some clothes from his wardrobe and the towel hanging over the top of the door and heads towards the bathroom.

"You'll go then?" Molly calls after him. "Really?"

"No!" Sherlock replies, his voice echoing from the bathroom.

"Why not?" Molly asks, pushing the duvet away and swinging her legs out of bed. She follows him to the bathroom, the door still open while he inspects his face in the mirror.

"Not interested," Sherlock says shortly, stretching the skin under his eyes and glowering at the dark circles.

"It's your _last chance._"

"Don't care. I won't accept anything from Mycroft."

"But Sherlock you _need_ -"

He slams the bathroom door in her face and within seconds, anything she says is drowned out by the sound of the shower.

The phone rings, and Molly dashes to the bedroom to answer it.

"Yes?"

"The car's waiting."

Molly feels her heart shrink in her chest. She's failed. She didn't make any headway with him whatsoever. She's _useless_.

"He won't go," she stammers. "He says he's...he's not interested."

Mycroft sighs. "Well that's that then. My brother is dead to me."

"You don't mean that!" Molly gasps.

"I do. And it will only be a matter of weeks, I am sure of it, until that will _literally_ be the case. I give up."

"You don't give up on fam-!" Molly yells down the phone, but too late. Mycroft is gone. Molly looks out of the window, and the sleek black car pulls away. It turns right at the end of the road, disappearing into the traffic. She continues to stare out of the window at the slow moving traffic, and eventually she hears the shower shut off, and the padding of footsteps as Sherlock returns.

He wraps his arms around Molly from behind, his hands locked together, keeping her prisoner. He's only wearing a towel, and Molly tries desperately hard not to think about that. It's not important, not when Sherlock's last hope of recovery is getting further and further away. He presses a kiss against her jaw and she holds in a shiver.

"D'you want to make me a coffee?"

Molly pushes his arms away and leaves the bedroom. Quite plainly, he doesn't want saving.

* * *

She steps out of the hospital doors, the cold air hitting her forcefully. She looks around, not knowing which way to go. She doesn't want to go home. Doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't want to go to her friends. She's not sure they have the emotional maturity to really help her with something like this. They'll probably just press a bottle of vodka into her hands and sit with her, while awkward silence reigns.

Her feet start moving, her pumps slapping on the ground, and she doesn't think about where to go. She doesn't need to. In the back of her mind she vaguely knows where she's headed, but she won't acknowledge it. Mostly because she knows it's not one of her better ideas.

Especially not if it's emotional maturity she's after.

When she reaches his front door, she takes out her key and unlocks it. It creaks on its hinges as she pushes it open, and she closes it softly once she's inside. The flat is silent, and she hopes he is out. If he's home and he's this quiet, well, she doesn't like it when he's quiet. When he's switched off. Today, of all days, she really needs him to be switched _on_.

He's in his bedroom. Eyes closed, needle resting on the bedside cabinet. The crook of his arm is bruised and Molly wonders why the fuck he can't roll his sleeve down, and just shield a little of reality from her. She hates those bruises. They never go, only morph into different shapes and colours. New ones appear often, dark purple, while older ones start to yellow and eventually fade, to give the new ones more space to work in.

Sherlock doesn't acknowledge her presence, though she hardly expected him to. He's so far gone that she doubts he'd notice if a bomb went off, even if it shook the entire house with the force of the explosion.

Molly straightens the sheets and lies down next to him, curling herself against him, wanting his protection, even if he doesn't know he's giving it. His arms are thinner than ever, and she can feel his ribcage through his shirt. Sometimes, she wishes she'd never met him. And yet here she is, in her darkest hour, sharing it with him.

It is a few minutes before his arm closes around her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. His fingers move slowly against the skin of her upper arm, as though he is testing them out for the first time. She cannot help herself. Molly begins to sob quietly into his chest, her shoulders shaking as the tears soak Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock slowly props himself up on his elbow and Molly sits up, looking into those empty blue eyes that have lost their sparkle. He wipes a tear from her cheek with his thumb, his brow creased in mild concern.

"He's gone," she whispers. "My Dad's gone."

A fresh wave of grief hits her, for it is the first time she has said it aloud and now, suddenly, it's real. She is alone in the world except for this wreck of a junkie, and she looks up at him, her eyes swollen and bloodshot, desperate for some sort of recognition from him. All she wants is for him to realise that she's not okay, and more than that, she wants him to try and make it better.

There is a flicker of something behind his eyes, a shadow of Sherlock. His arms are around her, holding her tightly against his chest, his chin resting on top of her head. He rocks her gently while she cries, not saying a word. It's not because he doesn't know what to say, far from it. But what he wants to say is buried so far beneath the poison in his veins that his mouth can't even begin to utter it.

It is an echo of the man she loves who looks after her tonight, but it's better than she ever could have hoped for. There is something in his touch that whispers 'I'm here, I'm here' and so she clings to him, while the sky outside grows gradually lighter.

It is the first time she wakes without a dad. All she has is Sherlock, or what's left of him, and she's not sure how much longer she'll even have that.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Hey guys. It's stupid o'clock and I just got in from work. As such, I just uploaded this without formatting it properly. If you get 2 notifications for this chapter, that's why. Sorry about that. Anyway, thank you for all your lovely reviews. Genuinely get me through the most rubbish bits of my day (yo dawg, can you make me a website like this one? *makes website* yo dawg, i heard you like websites so I'd given you six other websites to make into one website for me. Instead of the design that I asked you to ) Rage. Anyway, my life aside. You're all wonderful. I might have mentioned that already but I think you guys deserve it twice. Hope you like this chapter. And by like I mean...well, you'll see what I mean. Soz.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She has known for some time that this day would come. At first, nothing was really amiss. Her stomach had dropped at the sight of him sprawled across the bed, his arm hanging off the edge, syringe clutched loosely in his long, thin fingers.

When she gets closer, however, she realises he is paler than usual. His lips are tinged blue, and Molly grabs his arm, pulling his hand up to her face. His fingertips are also blue.

Molly's blood runs cold.

She places her fingers against his neck, and when she can't find a pulse, presses her ear to his chest.

Nothing.

She blinks away tears, and moves quickly around the bed to Sherlock's cabinet. She pulls the drawer out and empties the contents onto the floor. His metal tin is there, and she opens it, flicking several fresh syringes out of her way. There is a small brown bottle, different from the one on his bedside cabinet, and Molly takes one of the syringes, jabs it into the top of the bottle, and fills the entire syringe with its contents.

She takes a deep breath, hand poised, and looks down at his chest.

Now or never.

She sinks the needle into him, her thumb pressing the plunger down steadily and quickly. She pulls out the needle and tosses it aside.

And then she waits, chewing nervously on her lip, her fingers tapping anxiously against the skin of his chest.

"Come on," she whispers. "Come on."

She tries not to think back to the last time she saw him (three days ago) and wonders how long he's been laying here without a heartbeat. He's not dead. He's definitely not dead. Molly knows that, despite all evidence to the contrary.

"Sherlock, _please_," she whispers. "Just this once, _please_."

Molly blinks rapidly, unable to stop the tears from building, and they trickle down her face while she waits for Sherlock to wake up, because he will. _He will._

"Sherlock," her voice cracks and Molly presses a hand to her mouth, trying to keep her sobs in, but she can't help herself. She closes her eyes and begins to cry in earnest, her entire body shaking.

She wipes at her face with her sleeve and takes a deep breath. She needs to phone an ambulance. They won't be able to do anything for him. But she can't leave him here. She keys the number into her phone, but before she hits the dial button, she swears she hears a cough.

Molly looks up through bloodshot eyes. There is another cough, and this time, she sees Sherlock's chest spasm. She drops her phone and it clatters to the floor. She climbs onto the bed, leaning over Sherlock, and she swears, she swears on her _life_ that his lips have a little more colour in them.

With one final cough, Sherlock sits bolt upright, his chest heaving as he pulls the oxygen into his lungs, his face inches from Molly's. She stays exactly where she is, while Sherlock's breathing steadies out.

"Hello," he says. "Nice of you to join me."

Molly responds in the only way she can: she slaps him across the face. Hard.

* * *

"I don't know what you're so upset about," Sherlock says casually, buttoning up a clean shirt. He snatches up all the dirty clothes on his floor and shoves them into the washing machine, forcing the door shut on them. He dumps in a good portion of detergent, twists the dial, and returns to the bed.

Molly watches him, and when she simply stares at him, unspeaking, he continues to tidy up.

"I knew you'd turn up."

"Did you?"

"_Yes_," Sherlock says firmly. "You always do."

It's an off the cuff remark but it hurts nonetheless. Molly helps him, or tries to, because she hopes that he might actually appreciate it. Now, she realises, he's come to expect it. He expects her to check in on him regularly, expects her to administer his magic potion and expects her to be absolutely fine with all of it.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might have better things to do?"

"No."

He's stripping the sheets off his bed now, and with one tug at his duvet, Molly is forced to stand. She can still see the sweat, glistening on his forehead.

"I can't do this anymore," she says. "I'm sorry, I just can't."

"Fine," Sherlock replies, not even bothering to look at her. He rolls up his sheets and throws them into a corner, then moves over to the window, unlocking it and pushing it open. Molly can see through the façade, can see his shaking hands and the way he has to take deep, steadying breaths every few minutes, as though he can barely believe he's alive.

"Clean yourself up," Molly says. "If you need help, you know where I am."

"Molly, don't fool yourself into thinking that you'll be able to stay away. We both know you adore me and couldn't possibly leave me if you thought it would damage me in any way."

He's speaking rapidly, in that cutting tone that Molly is more than used to. It's part of the comedown, but it doesn't make his words any less hurtful.

"I'm no good to you if I just keep making everything okay when you fuck up. I'm not your mum, remember? I've got exams. I've got to focus on those."

"No you don't. You could do those exams blindfolded." It's not really compliment. At least, the way in which he spits it out suggests it's not. Molly can sense the nastiness coming, and knows she should probably leave.

She moves towards the door, and Sherlock throws her a scathing look. "Fine," he says tartly. "But if I die, remember, it's _all your fault_." He punctuates the last three words by jabbing her in the chest with his forefinger. As he looms over her, Molly can see that his pupils are still dilated. She hates it when he's like this. She hates _him_.

"No Sherlock," she says, "It's yours."

She hoists her bag onto her shoulder and leaves the bedroom, heading down the corridor towards the front door.

"You'll be back tomorrow!" he calls, following her down the corridor, his feet slapping on the floorboards. "You'll be back, and you'll beg me to forgive you!"

Molly wrenches open the front door and lets it crash against the interior wall. She steps out onto the pavement, and walks determinedly ahead.

"Fuck you, Molly Hooper!" Sherlock yells. "Fuck _you!_"

He slams the door, so hard the noise echoes down the street. People stare at Molly as she walks, though she does not look back towards the house. She knows he will be watching her from his bedroom window. Knows that he will be waiting, waiting for her to come back.

Well she won't. This is it. And it breaks her heart.

* * *

She's crying before she's even closed the front door, sobbing uncontrollably as she hangs up her coat and bag. She starts to climb the stairs, but Stacey pokes her head out of the lounge.

"Molly? What's up? Is it Sherlock?"

Molly's blood boils. "My life does _not_ revolve around Sherlock Holmes!" she screeches.

"Yeah it does," Stacey says simply. "Of course it does."

"Well not anymore!" Molly splutters, pressing the heel of her palm against her face to try and stem the flow of tears.

"Why? What's he done?" Stacey asks. Then a look of realisation dawns on her face. "Oh God, he hasn't topped himself, has he?"

A fresh wave of tears breaks over Molly and she stumbles up the rest of the stairs, runs into her bedroom and locks the door behind her. She throws herself, face first onto the bed and sobs into her pillow, knowing full well that Stacey can hear her on the other side of the door.

"Molly..." she says softly. "Molly, let me in..."

Molly doesn't respond.

"He's not...is he?" Even Stacey can't bring herself to say the word, and Molly cries harder.

After what feels like hours, Molly runs out of tears, and so she lays in bed, staring out the window at the night sky. She cannot see a single star.

* * *

When she wakes, she feels numb. Her body is empty and she doesn't feel as though she has the strength to get up. She wraps herself tightly in her duvet and tries to go back to sleep. She doesn't make much progress, and by ten o'clock, Stacey is knocking at the door.

"Molls, I've made you some tea if you want it? And I'm about to put some bacon on." Her voice is delicate, as though it's handling very fine glass that might shatter at any minute. And Molly supposes that she might.

She doesn't reply, and Stacey, assuming that Molly's still asleep, descends the stairs and starts clattering about in the kitchen.

Five minutes later, Molly hears the sound of the smoke alarm.

It reminds her of home, when she still had one that is, and this is enough to set her off again.

* * *

She is woken by the loud bleep of her phone. She opens her eyes blearily, reaches out to her bedside cabinet, and her fingers close around her mobile.

She assumes that it is Sherlock, mostly, she realises later, because she is still half asleep and is kidding herself that everything was just a bad dream.

It's not Sherlock. It's Neil, asking to borrow her notes on heart disease. Molly throws the phone across the room. Moments later, she hears Stacey climbing the stairs.

"Molls? You up?"

"Yeah," Molly says softly, realising she can avoid Stacey no longer. She pushes herself up and then stands, stumbling over to the door and unlocking it. She pulls it open and Stacey is waiting there, her brow creased in concern.

"What's going on?"

"I'm done with him," Molly says weakly. "I can't...not anymore."

Stacey puts an arm around her and leads her over to the bed. They sit down on the edge and within seconds, Molly is pouring out her heart, telling Stacey everything, from the blue fingertips to the cough, from the slap to the 'Fuck you, Molly Hooper'. Stacey rubs Molly's back soothingly, and says meaningless things such as "All right, it's all right."

It's far from all right, and Molly knows that Stacey knows that as well as she does. But she says it anyway, to try and fool them both into optimism.

"Look," Stacey says, matter-of-factly. "You don't need to worry about him, all right? It's his life, and if he messes it up, it's on his own head."

"But Stace..."

"He's fine, okay? I saw him today, he's still alive. He's fine. So you just focus on the exams and he'll come running back soon enough, all right?"

Molly tries to swallow the lump in her throat, but can't. And then Stacey's words register in her head.

"What d'you mean you saw him?"

"He was in the newsagent's when I went to get some Lucozade," Stacey shrugs. "I always see him out and about."

"Really?" Molly asks in disbelief.

"Yeah. Well he lives the other side of the station so you know, it's not exactly weird."

"No he doesn't," Molly contradicts. "He lives in Islington."

Stacey frowns. "That's not what he told me..."

"Well he was _lying_ then," Molly says impatiently. She gets up and goes over to the window, looking outside. The street is deserted, but she'd expected as much. He'd never let her see him. Not in a million years.

Molly turns her back, and returns to the bed.

"He's a twat you know," Stacey says, putting her arm around Molly once more. "You deserve better."

Molly knows this. She's known it for years. But the trouble is, she doesn't _want_ better. She just wants Sherlock. Alive and happy.

She's not sure even a miracle can grant her that.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **It's a good job I only have rewrites left to do on this fic - I was given a ps3 at work today for my birthday. So yeah, I'll be going and hiding in a corner somewhere with that for about six weeks, hahah. Thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. And I know, I'm awful to Molly. Soz. Anywho, hope you like this chapter. It's one of my favourites to be honest. I enjoyed writing it a lot.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She turns her pencil case over and over in her hands. Through the clear plastic, she can see her five brand new black biros, her five hb pencils (also brand new) her six inch ruler, her shiny metal pencil sharpener, her gleaming white rubber, and her calculator. She thinks that's everything. She goes over the list in her head again, all the while checking that she _does_ have something to write with, and that all of her pens and pencils haven't mysteriously disappeared in the blink of an eye.

They are allowed to enter the examination hall, single file, and Molly scans for her candidate number, somewhere in the first third of the seats. She spots it, the little strip of white paper that marks the exact location of her misery. She tries to still her shaking hands but cannot, and winces as she pulls the chair out and the legs scrape noisily against the floor.

She wonders what Sherlock would say, were he here. Wonders what he'd make of her nerves. But then she realises it doesn't matter, because he's _not_ here and he's _not _her problem and if he's lying dead in a gutter somewhere...well there's only so much she can do. She's given up enough of her education for him already. She's not going to fuck up her exams just because he can't keep away from his fucking needle.

Not that she's angry.

She's fucking fuming with him. And then she despairs for him. And then she misses him. And then she lays awake all night worrying about him.

She goes through about seven hundred emotional states each day, and by the time she crawls into bed at night, all she wants is to close her eyes and wake up with a little more energy so she can do it all again the next day. But no. She can't even have that. She has to have mental images of him, his lips tinged blue, his skin ghostly white, his fingers cold, the crook of his arm black.

Molly blinks.

_Enough_.

The papers are handed out and she busies herself with writing her name, candidate number, and centre number on the top of the front page. The cheap paper feels decidedly unfriendly against her skin, and she's not sure she's going to like this exam. Not that she's gotten on particularly well with any of the others, but she finds a smooth paper makes for a smooth ride.

"You may begin."

There is a flurry of turning pages, and Molly carefully opens her examination booklet, smoothing the crease into a neat, flat line. She looks at the first question, and the picture beside it. Her mind is blank and her heart starts to race.

_I don't know what you're worried about. You're easily the least idiotic person in this room._

Molly looks around and sees half of her class mates staring dumbly at the paper. She should be concerned about the voice in her head, but if it helps her get through this exam, then she'll take all the help she can get. Even if she does get sectioned as soon as she leaves the building.

_Observe..._

Molly looks down at the picture once more. It's like a morbid game of spot the difference. After thirty seconds, she notices the slightly darker shade of the left hand side of the kidney, and begins to write.

* * *

_The patient's estimated time of death was 7:30 am. The autopsy is carried out at 22:45 pm the following day. What evidence might have been used to determine the time of death?_

Molly races through all of her notes in her head. There is so _much_ she could say, but only about twenty percent of it would be correct. There is a reason the question is not _how does one determine a time of death?_ What is so specific that it can be applied to thirty nine and a quarter hours of death?

Her mind flashes back, not to endless pages of text books and notes, but to a grim little house in the east of the city, the floorboards bare, the paint peeling from the walls. The smell revisits her nostrils and she tries to swallow it back down, tries to forget it, but she knows that this particular memory holds something for her.

Sherlock whips out his mini magnifying glass (a prize in a Christmas cracker, when she forced him to celebrate with her) and takes a closer look at the fingertips of the corpse. This small action unlocks something within Molly, and she cannot stop the words from flowing out of her pen.

_You see? You were fretting over nothing. As usual._

Molly presses her lips tightly shut. It is all she can do to keep herself from telling him, very loudly, to shut the fuck up.

* * *

The exams over, Molly finds herself in The Earl with the rest of her class. It is packed, as is usual on a Friday night, and it takes Molly nearly ten minutes to get served at the bar - and then even longer because they insist upon checking her I.D. Once the barman has established that she isn't actually twelve, he gives Molly a bottle of pear cider, takes her money, and returns with rather less change than Molly was hoping for. She's still not used to London prices, especially not in the west end.

She returns to her group and sits down, immediately questioned about what she put as her answer for 'the one about the old woman'. When she answers with "Liver failure," the others groan.

"But it said she had a history of heart disease!" Stacey protests. "Why would they say that if it wasn't relevant?"

"They say that because that's the information you'll have from her records. I've got a history of falling over and making an idiot of myself, but you don't think my cause of death is going to be listed as 'clumsy twat antics' do you?"

Neil laughs loudly, while the others simply look grumpy. Molly thinks it's safe to say that she is the only one who went for liver failure, despite the fact that it was obvious from the facts presented.

"And what about the bruises on question fifteen? That was from insulin injections, right? He was diabetic."

Molly's heart shrinks in her chest at this. Yes, the patient had been diabetic, and yes, he could have fallen into a coma and not recovered. But even without a tox screen it was plain to see. The thin, sinewy arms, the gaunt face.

Molly gulps down half of her cider and ignores the chatter about blood sugar levels. Her arms and legs feel like they're made of lead, and her head is swimming unpleasantly, the black and white photographs of the exam specimens merging with a very familiar haughty face.

She finishes her cider quickly and makes an escape to the bar, glad to be away from the others and surrounded by the hustle and bustle of strangers. Her bubble doesn't last long however, as Neil soon joins her, leaning against the bar casually.

"You know I wouldn't be surprised if you scored one hundred percent," he says, taking a fiver out of his wallet, ready to hand to the barman.

"I would," Molly says glumly. Her mind is far from exam results now. But Neil insists upon talking to her and so she must show some sort of acknowledgement.

"You should have applied to Edinburgh you know," Neil tells her, his voice deeper and more echoing than usual. It's rather like he's imitating a grown up. Molly resists the urge to tell him to get lost, and now, more than ever, regrets her decision to go to King's. It didn't save Sherlock, far from it. Prolonged his life perhaps a little, but other than that, the whole thing had been a complete waste of time. She could have had a fresh start in Edinburgh, could have spent hours upon hours in that gorgeous library with its arched ceiling and beautifully carved, gleaming white pillars. She could have graduated with a first from _Edinburgh_. She would have gotten into any hospital she chose, but with a first from King's. Well, it was a decent enough degree, but hardly a 'let's hire her before someone else does'.

"I really admire you, you know."

Molly blinks, suddenly realising that Neil is still talking.

"You're so sharp, and you see things that none of the rest of us can see."

Molly shrugs. "It's all there."

"I know, but you're the only one that sees it. Even Dr Hargreaves says - look, I guess what I'm trying to say is that -"

Molly's stomach feels funny. She doesn't like this, and her mind is immediately on Sherlock. She wonders where he is, what he's doing, and whether he's as miserable without her as she is without him. Or maybe he's still talking to her as though she's there because he's too wrapped up in his fucking drugs to realise she left him long ago.

"And I know you were sort of seeing that guy but I haven't seen him around for ages so thought that maybe we could go out for a drink some time."

"We are out. And drinking. And the time is five to ten."

Neil smiles good naturedly, but Molly can sense the frustration behind the smile. She _needs _the barman to serve her _right now_. She can't leave without a drink, because that would obviously be running away, but she doesn't want to hear another word of this conversation.

"If you're still hung up on him, that's fine, I'll wait."

Molly frowns. She doesn't like the assumption that after she's 'over Sherlock' (as if _that _would ever happen) that she'd be happy to settle for an idiot like Neil, who laughs too loudly at her rubbish jokes to try and impress her. She much prefers Sherlock's outright disdain for any mildly humorous comment she makes.

"You're well shot of him you know," Neil continues. "Well shot of him."

"I beg your pardon?" Molly says, her voice quiet but very audible in the noisy pub. She can feel anger ripple through her. Who the _hell_ is Neil to comment on her relationship with Sherlock? He doesn't even _know _him.

"Well, we all know he's a fucking junkie, Molls."

"_Don't_ call me _Molls."_

"Sorry," Neil says, baffled. "But come on, he was going to drag you down with him eventually. You'd have gone the same way as him, would have stuck that needle in your arm the second he asked you to."

"He would _never_ ask me to do that!" Molly hisses. "Don't you dare, don't you _fucking dare_ -"

"Look, all I'm saying is you're better off. We all know that the tortured souls can be appealing sometimes, but you can't have a relationship with someone who doesn't even know what day of the week it is."

"Even unconscious, that man is far more intelligent than you could ever _hope_ to be. Even when he's up to his eyeballs in smack, he is much more of a gentleman, much better company and a much better _human_ than _you_. So don't you _dare_ comment on my relationship with him when you know _fuck all_ about it."

"I was only saying -"

"Well it's not your place to fucking well say, is it?" she shrieks. Molly's fist twitches, and for a moment she considers punching him in the face. She counts to three, and that is enough time for her to decide that leaving would be her best option.

"He's probably dead already. Give it up."

Molly doesn't make it to three this time. She doesn't even make it to one.

Unsurprisingly, she finds that she has a very clear path when she eventually leaves the pub. Stacey runs after her, calling her name, but Molly doesn't turn around. She storms back to Ladbroke Grove and boards the first circle line train that arrives.

She is still shaking when she gets home, and it takes her a few attempts to actually get her door key into the lock. Once inside, she backs against the door to close it, and then slides down it, until she is on the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest, forehead resting against them as she lets a few tears of desperation escape.

She doesn't permit herself too much melancholy however, and soon she is up and about, bustling around the kitchen making tea. She studiously ignores Sherlock's mug, which has migrated to the back of the cupboard due to lack of use, and throws a teabag into her own as she waits for the kettle to boil.

There is a knock at the door, and Molly, about to fill her mug with hot water, slams down the kettle so hard that a few droplets of scorching hot water jump out of the spout. If it's Stacey, then Molly wants to know where the fuck her key is. If it's Neil, then God fucking help him, because he's asking for punctured lung, the way he's going. If it's anybody else, well, they'd best have a thick skin because Molly is _not_ in the mood for visitors.

She hauls open the front door and is about to demand a reason for the interruption, but at the sight of him, her anger evaporates, her face falling.

"Nice punch," he says, his eyes boring into hers. He's not high. And he's not on the come down. But he's not well either. He's thinner than she's ever seen him and Molly can feel the tears building in her eyes - relief that he's actually still alive, devastation at the mess he's gotten himself into, and heartache, because the man she loves is falling apart at the seams. His hands are in his pockets, she assumes to keep him from fidgeting. It's a side effect of him being sober, as it were.

"I was just making some tea," she says weakly. She steps aside, and he enters the house, moving past her easily in the narrow doorway. He hangs up his coat and Molly tries not to look at how narrow his waist has become, or the ribs that are easily visible under the fabric of his shirt.

She leads the way through to the kitchen, and reaches up to take his mug from the cabinet. She stands on tip toes and her fingers brush against the handle, but before she strains any further, he's there, his bony fingers closing around the mug and placing it on the counter top. He doesn't move however, doesn't insist upon the personal space he is usually so keen on, and Molly wonders if he actually _has_ missed her.

"When did you last eat?" she asks stiffly.

"I don't know."

He's being honest and straightforward, which means that he won't argue when she bungs a pizza in the oven for him. He even allows her to put some extra ham on it, and Molly knows that he must be in trouble.

They sit in the lounge, drinking their tea in silence while they wait for the pizza to cook. Once it's ready, Sherlock eats, without saying a word, and once he's done, places his empty plate on the coffee table then drains the last of his tea.

Molly doesn't want to look at him. The sight is too upsetting and she cannot bear it.

"I'm going to rehab tomorrow."

"_What_?"

"Rehab, tomorrow," Sherlock says. His voice is clipped and dry and Molly can hardly believe her ears. "I think it's about time, don't you?" His voice breaks, along with Molly's heart, and she pulls him close to her. He doesn't resist, and sinks against her, allowing her to wrap her arms around him tightly. His shoulders begin to shake but Molly doesn't acknowledge it. She knows she would do more damage than good if she tried to comfort him any more because of his sobbing. His whole body trembles against her, and soon tears are falling freely down Molly's face too. She laces her fingers with his and he grips her hand so tightly she thinks he might crush her fingers.

Between his racking sobs she can make out a few words. Words she never thought she would hear. Words even more astonishing than 'I'm going to rehab'.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm so _so _sorry."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: **Genuinely love how emotive you guys get over the characters. It makes me feel like I'm not so crazy after all. XD Thanks for reviewing, and I hope you like this!

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

When the black car comes for her, Molly gets in before she is instructed to. Sherlock has warned her of this for years. She's surprised it has taken this long if she's honest. The woman who sits next to her is far too engrossed in her Blackberry to hold any sort of conversation, and so Molly stares blankly out of the window.

_"If he offers you money to spy on me, take it."_

Molly could do with a new sofa if she's honest. And she's seen a pair of boots in the window of Selfridges that she could never justify buying out of her own salary.

They arrive at a grimy office block, somewhere near Shepherd's Bush. Molly gets out of the car and follows the Blackberry woman into the building, enters the lift, and says nothing when the woman reaches inside and presses the button for the top floor.

When the lift doors open, Molly spots him straight away. He is standing by the window, his hands in his pockets, looking out over the city.

"I expect you're wondering who I am."

"Not really. We've spoken before."

He turns, slowly. He has a thin face, dark eyes, and is wearing a smart three piece suit. He is just as Sherlock described him. He looks mildly surprised, but then smiles, in what he must think is a warm way at Molly.

"What a good memory you have. Please, take a seat." Mycroft gestures with his umbrella towards an ancient office chair, but Molly won't be taking any orders from him. Not after the way he's been. And besides, Sherlock's given her strict instructions to never indulge _any_ of Mycroft's requests.

Except for the spying and the money, of course.

"Very well," he says, looking down at his feet, as though inspecting his shoes to see if there's any dirt on them. "Let's not beat around the bush. My junkie of a little brother -"

"He's _clean_," Molly says through gritted teeth. "No thanks to _you_."

Mycroft smiles that chillingly warm smile once again. "Yes...I'm not sure how much credit we can give to him for not shooting up in a place where they won't _let him_."

"If he wanted to do that, he'd be doing it. You know what he's like," Molly argues. "It was his decision to go in. That's the hardest part."

"Yes," Mycroft muses. "I read that too...but I'm sure it will be far harder for him when he leaves next week. When he has _access_."

"I thought we weren't going to beat around the bush?" Molly says, wanting him to cut to the chase. She doesn't want to stand here and listen to him moan about his 'junkie of a little brother'. She won't hear a word against Sherlock, not even from Mycroft, she doesn't care how much power he has, she will _not_ hear it.

"You're going to collect him next week I believe?"

"Yes," Molly says. She has already rented a car for the occasion, and she will be driving out to Norfolk to fetch him, then bringing him back to stay with her until he is back on his feet.

"Don't."

"Why not?"

"I think he needs longer."

"The doctor's cleared him for release," Molly argues, though her voice is soft. She has been looking forward to Sherlock's return for three long months. The only contact has been the odd phone call here and there, but it's not enough. His voice has rarely changed over the years she's known him, it's no indication of his health. She needs to _see_ him to be able to believe he's on the mend. Needs to hold him, and make sure that there is enough flesh covering his bones.

"I don't think he's suitably prepared for the outside world."

"I disagree."

Mycroft sighs and lifts his umbrella up to examine the tip of it. "I'm sure you will do your very best to look after him, Miss Hooper -"

"_Dr_ Hooper."

Mycroft looks at her, chewing the inside of his cheek. "I can see why he likes you..."

"He's coming out next week," Molly says, in the firmest voice she can muster. She has to forcibly remind herself that _literally_ putting her foot down will not have the same effect as metaphorically doing so. She keeps both feet firmly planted, and stares back at Mycroft, her jaw set.

"Very well," Mycroft says at last. "There is to be no convincing you. At the very least, allow me to fund his post-clinic recovery."

"Do what you want," Molly shrugs. "It doesn't bother me."

"By the time you return home, there will be a sizeable sum in your bank account. Do not inform him of this, do not give him any _cash_. All I ask is that you telephone me once a week to keep me informed of his recovery. Dial one five eight on your telephone and you shall reach my private line."

"Okay," Molly says. "That's fine. But you know, you could always speak to him yourself -"

"He would never allow it," Mycroft cuts across. "He's very stubborn."

"I'm sure if you apologised..."

"I would," he pauses, "but I'm not sorry."

Molly doesn't know what to say to that, and so she stands there, her mouth slightly ajar, more determined than ever before to ensure that Sherlock doesn't so much as get a sniff of aspirin ever again.

"For your troubles..." Mycroft reaches under a nearby desk with his umbrella, and hooks the handle around something. He pulls it out and offers it to Molly, still dangling on the end of his umbrella.

It is a bright yellow Selfridge's bag.

* * *

She arrives at around eleven o'clock. The sun is peeping out from behind the clouds, and Molly steps out of the car, looking up at the large stone building. She had expected something quite different. Something clinical and plasticky. But then again, Sherlock had chosen it.

Molly pushes open the heavy oak front door, and approaches the desk. All the walls are panelled with gleaming wood, the floors are tiled, and the sweeping staircase off to the right has a luxurious burgundy carpet running down it.

"I'm here to collect Sherlock Holmes," she says, her voice sounding rather small in the large echoing entrance hall.

The woman behind the desk looks up at her, sniffs, and then picks up the telephone. She dials a number with her long, bony finger, and waits while it rings.

"Is Holmes ready? A girl's come for him."

Molly would rather be a _girl_ than a rancid old hag, but perhaps it's best to keep that opinion to herself. She wants to be out of here fairly quickly, and she's sure that Sherlock won't want to hang around either.

A clipboard is slapped on the counter top with various sheets of paperwork.

"Sign every page. He's your liability now. God help you."

Molly fixes the woman with a dark look, before snatching the fountain pen from its ink well and scrawling her signature in the bottom right corner of every page. She jams the pen back in the ink well, ignoring the spatters of black that appear on the counter, and waits, her arms folded.

Within minutes, Sherlock is sweeping down the stairs, his suitcase in hand, and before Molly can even say a word, he is heading for the door. She follows him, as she always does, and fishes the car key out of the pocket of her jeans. He doesn't say a word until they are in the car. Molly puts the key in the ignition but doesn't turn it.

"Can we go?" he asks, looking straight ahead.

"How are you?"

"_Fine_."

Molly turns the key, deciding that conversation may be best saved for later. The drive back is silent. The radio is off, and Sherlock, Molly notices from the corner of her eye, has his head resting against the window, as he stares at the cars passing by. In his hand is a silver bangle. Molly's been looking for it for months. She thought she'd lost it. He turns it delicately in his fingers, and Molly says nothing.

He's changed, she's sure of that much, but whether it's for the better, she doesn't know.

* * *

He's not even been in the flat five seconds before he's up to his old tricks again.

"New sofa? And new boots I see. All a bit fancy for a graduate, don't you think?"

"Well, I'm working at Bart's and the pay's not too bad -"

"You'd never buy those boots for yourself," Sherlock hisses. "Don't lie to me. It's obvious who you've been in touch with."

"He came to me," Molly says stubbornly. "And I seem to remember you telling me that if he offered me money then I should take it."

Sherlock throws himself onto the new sofa and says nothing.

"It doesn't mean I'm on his side. He wanted to keep you in there for longer! He tried to be Mr Big-Shot-I'm-In-The-Government-Don't-Mess-With-Me but I wasn't having any of it, all right?"

"Stood up to him did you?" Sherlock asks sarcastically. "Stood your ground?"

"He called you a junkie," Molly says quietly. "And I decided I didn't like him."

Sherlock leans his head against the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He lets out a long breath, his chest sinking slowly. He looks healthier than Molly has ever seen him, and she is glad, that even if he is still struggling mentally, he is in good physical shape at the very least. It's something to build on.

"And apart from that, he called me _Miss_ Hooper."

"So?"

"Well I'm _not_ Miss Hooper anymore, am I?"

"Don't tell me you're _married_." He says it with more contempt than Molly strictly approves of, but that's not the point right now.

"No. But I've graduated. I'm a doctor. And I told him so."

Sherlock sits up and looks at her. His eyes are bright, not with the glaze she is used to, but something else. They are as crystal clear as the first time she saw him.

"Doctor Hooper."

"Yes."

It starts as a small chuckle, but soon breaks into open laughter. Sherlock's Adam's apple is bouncing in his throat, his head thrown back, his arms crossed over his stomach. Molly bites her lip, briefly wondering if he has gone mad. But hearing him laugh, something which she hasn't heard for _years_, is enough to induce a few silent tears from her.

When his laughter abates, and he looks at her once more, his face falls. "Molly, I wasn't laughing at _you_."

"I know," she replies, wiping her face with the cuff of her cardigan. "I just...I'm glad you're back."

Sherlock pretends he doesn't hear her. "Did you _really _correct Mycroft?"

She nods.

The laughter starts up once again, and Molly knows that no matter what happens in the first difficult months, Sherlock will be absolutely fine.

* * *

The cold hits her as the duvet lifts up, and she feels him slide in next to her. His arms close around her, and Molly pretends to be asleep. She knows he doesn't like anybody knowing about his emotional needs. Not even her. She'd never tell a soul of course, but even so, if she acknowledges it, it won't happen again.

He only ever comes to her when he needs her, and she won't jeopardise that. It's not worth the consequences.

By the time she wakes he is gone, and she can hear him pottering around in the kitchen, making coffee. The pillow next to her has been plumped up, so there is not hollow where a head might have rested over night, and when she ventures into the lounge, the sheets on the sofa are twisted, the pillow suitably dented.

She doesn't show any sign of acknowledgement when he joins her that night, nor any of the following nights. Six weeks in, and Sherlock spends his first night on the sofa.

Molly fetches a spare blanket at four in the morning because she is far too cold, and forces herself to be happy for him.

* * *

"How is he?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Very good, Miss Hooper."

Molly scowls and hangs up.

* * *

He shadows her while she works. He has 'acquired' a white lab coat from somewhere, and sometimes he throws it on to avoid awkward questions.

Mike knows the situation though. And Mike permits it.

Mycroft had questioned the idea of letting him run riot in a place that holds so many drugs, but Molly argued until he backed down. If Sherlock is stuck inside her flat all day, or left to roam the streets of London, the chances are she'll return to find him chain smoking. Or worse.

In the hospital however, his brain is kept busy. Boredom leads to bad things, Molly has learned that very quickly. And besides, she can keep an eye on him. Sort of.

The door to the lab opens and Lestrade enters, his face grim.

"You got anything for me, Molly?"

Molly shakes her head. "Not yet, sorry."

"Really?"

Both Molly and Lestrade turn to look at Sherlock, who is perched on a stool at the end of the bench, his eyes fixed on a test tube, which he is shaking gently with his fingers. The sediment in it settles and Sherlock pops the test tube back into the rack.

"You're looking for somebody in the construction industry. Labourer most likely. Somebody who gets their hands dirty."

Lestrade frowns. "Is this him?"

"Yeah," Molly replies. "It's him."

Sherlock narrows his eyes at Molly. "What have you been saying?"

Molly feels her cheeks redden, but she won't be made to feel bad. Not after all she's done for him. "I just told him about some of the cases you took me on. Like that first one, with Barnham."

Sherlock sniffs. "That was child's play."

"Really?" Lestrade says, "Because I thought it was murder. _Double_ murder."

"You're looking for a construction worker remember."

"There are hundreds of them in this city!" Lestrade protests. "Where the hell do I start?"

"Sherlock," Molly says softly. "Why don't you go with him? Take a look? If that's all right with you?" She's looking at Lestrade now, her eyes pleading with him.

"Yeah," Lestrade says, nodding his head. "Why not? What's the worst that could happen?"

Sherlock opens his mouth, but Molly gives him a warning look and for once, he actually follows her silent order.

"Wonderful," he says, throwing on his coat. "Lead the way, Detective Inspector."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: **Guess who did some painting yesterday! I did all the woodwork, like a good girl, and I'm not all out of masking tape. Anyway, I'm posting this, and waiting for the gloss to dry so I can start chucking emulsion everywhere. I have a rule though. I want to get out the last chapter even more than you guys want to read it. So I'm not going to post it until I have finished painting that godforsaken room. Hopefully that means that I'll be updating fairly late tonight. If not tonight, then definitely tomorrow. _However_. I can't do anything until the gloss is dry. Which means I have a few hours to kill. Which means I'll be working on a one-shot companion piece which will be posted tomorrow night. If it's finished. As ever, thank you so much for your wonderful reviews. I hope you like this chapter.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

He is lying across her sofa, repeatedly tossing Molly's bangle up into the air and catching it. She watches it glint in the light as it spins, and her eyes follow it back down to his hands, which enclose around it. She's had it for years, but every now and then it'll disappear for a few weeks. She wore it religiously throughout her student days, back when chunky tarnished silver was cool, and she sometimes wears it now, if the occasion calls for it and she can actually find it.

"I've met someone."

Molly's heart sinks.

"A girl?" she asks, trying to keep her voice casual.

"No," Sherlock turns to look at her, frowning. From the tone of his voice, he may as well have asked her if she were mad. "A man."

Well she hadn't seen that one coming. Or maybe she had. He'd always been very well dressed after all.

"How long have you been seeing him?"

"I'm not _seeing him_," Sherlock responds impatiently. "This isn't a _romantic_ liaison, this is professional."

Molly's heart swells a little. Professional is fine. Professional she can deal with. Professional is a-okay with her.

"We're going to look at a flat together tomorrow. I need a better base."

Molly can't help but laugh.

"What?" Sherlock asks, sitting up at last and facing her, his fingers still enclosed around the bangle. "What's funny?"

"Holmes HQ?"

"Don't mock me."

"You do it to me often enough."

Sherlock narrows his eyes for a moment, but apparently concedes that Molly has a point. He settles himself back onto the sofa and starts launching the bangle into the air again. "It's in Baker Street."

"Right," Molly says, casting her mind to the tube map which is engraved on one small corner of her brain. After a moment she realises that it's just a few stops away, and that it will be just as easy to visit him there, as opposed to in Islington.

"He's a doctor," Sherlock adds as though this settles the matter.

"Good." She doesn't know what else to say.

When Sherlock throws on his coat, an hour later, Molly knows that things are going to be different from now on. He's seizing his independence with vigour, and she's happy for him, she really is. She's just going to miss him.

"I can't believe you thought it was a woman," Sherlock says, pulling his scarf around his neck.

Molly smiles.

"I've got enough in my life already, what with you and Mycroft."

With that, he is gone, and Molly is left on the sofa, staring dumbfounded at the closed door.

* * *

"New jumper?"

Molly braces herself for a torrent of criticism. "_Yes_."

"It's rather nice. For you."

"Almost," Molly says. "So close."

Sherlock looks up from the microscope and meets her eye. "What?"

"You _almost_ managed a compliment. Tripped up at the last minute. Just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Well it's not my fault that you usually dress like someone with a severe visual impairment."

Molly slams down her beaker. "Not fair!"

"It's true," Sherlock shrugs, lowering his eyes to the microscope once more, his fingertips fiddling gently with the dial.

Molly huffs. "If you think I'm getting you access to the DeVere corpse now..."

Sherlock laughs, and Molly scowls. "Empty threat, Molly. Empty threat."

She knows he is right, and sure enough, when the time comes for her to do the DeVere autopsy, he has made her a cup of tea and told her that her hair looks particularly nice today. All the while of course, he is standing far too close, the scent of his aftershave intoxicating, awakening the fifteen year old inside of her - the fifteen year old that would not mind one little bit if he decided to mess up that _particularly nice_ hair of hers today. Or any day, come to think of it.

* * *

The Jim debacle is something she'd rather forget. She is completely humiliated, and left with one question: What the fuck is she supposed to do now?

She tried. She really honestly fucking _tried_ to have a proper relationship with someone, tried to find some sort of happiness, but Sherlock, being Sherlock, naturally had to ruin it. He was far too smug when he broke the news to her, far too happy that she would have to break it off, and far too disgustingly content that she was single the next time he saw her.

"How's Jim?" he had asked, dropping half a dozen test tubes into a rack.

"Fuck off."

She had looked at him later, and saw he was positively beaming. She had never wanted to punch him so much in all her life.

She is still a little disconcerted about the whole thing. Ice cream keeps her company, along with trashy TV and the messy love lives (or reproductive lives) of the guests on Jeremy Kyle. She can take some comfort in the fact that she's not sitting in that studio, scowling at an audience who are there, like she is, to make themselves feel better.

When there is a knock at the door, Molly mooches over, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She doesn't care who sees her in her old jogging bottoms, with her hair tied up in the messiest of messy buns.

And then she opens the door, and there he is.

Scratch that last, there's _one person_ who she doesn't want to see her in jogging bottoms with messy hair. And as bollocking bad luck would have it, he is the man standing in her doorway. He thrusts a box at her and Molly takes it, her blanket dropping to the floor and pooling around her feet. He walks past her and into the flat, throws open the curtains, switches off the television, and puts the ice cream back in the freezer.

"Chocolate will increase your serotonin levels more than ice cream. And sunlight wouldn't go amiss _either_." He tugs the curtains open roughly then turns to face Molly.

Molly stands there, staring down at the obscenely large box of Thornton's Continental chocolates he has brought for her.

"I'm sorry you got involved but what's done is done. I'll see you tomorrow."

He is gone in a heartbeat, leaving Molly in her joggers with enough chocolate to last her at _least _five minutes. She sighs, puts the chocolates down, tosses the blanket onto the sofa, and then goes to run herself a bath.

He's right of course. As always.

* * *

The more confidence he gets, the more independence, the more he realises that he doesn't need to fall on Molly, the crueller he is to her. She puts the disastrous Christmas incident to one side. Gives him his pardon just this once, because he apologised, and more than that, he apologised with an audience. But still, she gets brushed aside these days.

Not for the first time, she feels like she has wasted far too much on Sherlock Holmes.

It is to her surprise when he comes in, one night in February, without John, just as she's finishing.

"I need to go home," she tells him. "I'm really tired. It'll have to wait until morning."

"No, I'm not here for anything, I just thought I'd walk you home, seeing as it's late."

Molly frowns. There is something quiet, subdued about him. She has no idea what to make of it, but permits him to escort her through the corridors.

"I got carried away," he says, as they dawdle along the street. She's not used to him dawdling. She's used to be dragged along by her wrist, used to her toes trying to grip onto her pumps for dear life. She's not used to this slow stroll that he has adopted tonight.

"With what?" she asks.

"With everything."

He's not making sense, and so Molly waits for him to continue.

"I've been neglectful," he continues. "Of you."

Molly raises her eyebrows, but says nothing. She will not assume a damn thing because assumption and Sherlock do _not_ go together. Unless you're making the assumption that he is, more often than not, a complete and utter prick.

"I try to forget everything that happened. I can't remember half of it anyway, if I'm honest. But the rest...I try to delete it. And by extension, I end up deleting everything you did."

"That's okay," Molly mumbles. "I understand."

"No," he says sharply. "It's not." He stops walking, though Molly takes a few more steps before she realises. She turns around to see him, looking more human than she has ever seen him.

"Sherlock..."

"Molly, I'm _clean_. I'm _alive_. I'm _better_."

Molly nods. "I know."

"There's no way in hell I could have done that without you. When everyone else had given up..." he stops talking and casts his eyes up at the sky, his chest swelling as he inhales deeply. "Mycroft had practically written my obituary. I know that."

"Sherlock this was _years ago_..."

"And I never said thank you. I thought it was long overdue."

"It's okay. I just...did what I thought was right."

Sherlock opens his mouth, but then reconsiders his words. Molly waits patiently.

"Have you had dinner?"

Molly shrugs. "I had a packet of -"

"Monster Munch," Sherlock finishes. "I noticed."

With four simple words he can make her paranoid. It seems silly, to be paranoid over a packet of crisps, but if he can _smell them_. Christ. Hardly appealing, is it?

"I'll take that as a no then," Sherlock continues. "There's a Thai place two streets away."

"Okay," Molly says.

"Good."

For the first time in years, Sherlock holds out his hand.

She takes it. She is fifteen again.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: **I've done absolutely no painting. But what I have done is upload the companion piece to this fic! *insert party poppers here* Anyway, it's called Nadir, it's on my page, and not that I'm blowing my own trumpet or anything but I actually really like the last line. So you should all go read it. I know some of you have already, and thank you for your super lovely reviews! And for the previous chapter reviews as well! This last A/N is just going to be chock-a-block with thank yous. Just one big thank you to everyone that's kept me company during this weird almost two weeks. I've loved reading your reviews and chatting to you and without your encouragement, this whole process would have been a lot longer. (Though I daresay half my house would be decorated by now.) Anyway, that's that for now, I'm off to do some painting, I hope you enjoy this.

* * *

**Schoolgirl Crush**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's pulled her armchair into her bedroom, so she can keep a comfortable watch over him. If she lies down next to him, she'll fall into too deep a sleep. If she nods off in her chair, well, the weight of her own head can easily nudge her back into consciousness.

She doesn't want to look at his face, cut, bruised, battered, and yet she can't tear her eyes away from him. That face, the face that made her heart skid to a halt when she was fifteen, the face that can _still_ make her heart skid to a halt if he catches her off guard, is probably never going to be the same again. He'll heal up just fine, if he manages to stay alive, but he'll have tiny silver scars scattered over his once perfect skin.

Molly reaches out a hand and brushes his hair away from his forehead. She's been here too many times before, and she has sat by his bedside while he hovers somewhere between life and death every single time. She realised long ago that she was never going to have a proper relationship, that her attachment to Sherlock would prevent her from giving herself to anyone other than him. The sad thing is, she can't just leave him. She knows full well he'd have died years ago, were it not for her, and she can't have that on her conscience. She can't kill the man she loves, even if it means she never finds true happiness of her own.

People, usually spiritual people, or up-their-own-arse people, sometimes talk about having a purpose in life. Molly never talks about her purpose, but she has known what it is for a very long time. She remembers a silent night in a boarding school and the slow and steady rhythm of his heart. She remembers the needle marks, and the intoxicating heat, coming from the fire. She remembers him coming down the next day too. Remembers how she wasn't exactly sorry to be leaving him behind at the station.

Yes, Molly's purpose in life, given to her by the God that paired her with Sherlock on that stupid school trip, is to keep Sherlock Holmes alive. It's no easy task, but she's been doing a pretty good job until now. She has no intention of letting that change, either, and so she sits, and waits, her hand reaching for his, because she needs to touch him. She needs to know that he's still here with her. She's given up more than he'll ever realise for him, and prays (because the last time she did so, her prayers were answered) that they won't get found out. She could lose her job over this. She could be struck off. She could be barred from working in the medical profession ever again.

There is a slight pressure on the back of her hand and Molly glances down. Sherlock's fingers are squeezing her hand ever so slightly. She almost cries in relief, but, with her free hand pressed over her mouth, she manages to suppress her tears.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes open. A hot tear trickles down Molly's cheek and she doesn't bother to wipe it away. In the back of her mind, a nasty little voice has been saying 'What if you never see those eyes again? What if by this time next year you've forgotten what colour they are?'. The voice is muted, and Molly sniffs as another tear escapes, rolling quickly down her skin.

"Thank goodness you're here," he breathes.

Molly wipes quickly at her eyes, not wanting to break while he is so broken.

"I'm always here," the crack in her voice gives her away, but his expression doesn't change to his usual scornful one. "You know I am."

"I know," he says weakly, and with a trembling hand, he raises her hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles. Molly holds in a shiver, and his eyes raise to meet her own. "I know you are. I just wasn't expecting to live."

"_Thanks_," she says bitterly, though she does not take her hand from his.

"Molly," his voice sounds a little more like his own now, his baritone sometimes breaking through. "My odds were never good. It's not a reflection on you. _This_," he gestures towards himself, "_me_, _alive_, that's a reflection on you. You're brilliant."

She relishes in the praise, because it is so rare that he gives it to anyone, let alone her. And then he says something that makes her heart freeze, and her arms feel like dead weights.

"I'll never understand why you weren't accepted at Edinburgh. Administrative error. Must have been."

She looks down at the carpet. She cannot lie to his face, not now he knows her so well. She has always wondered about what might have been, had she taken the place at Edinburgh. Sherlock would be dead, she knows that, but what about her life _outside_ of Sherlock? Because she does have one. It's not much, but she has one.

Before she knows what she's doing, her lips are moving, and words are falling from them, three words that she has kept locked away for years and years.

"I _was_ accepted."

Sherlock attempts to sit up, but winces, and Molly pushes him back onto his pillows. He doesn't fight her, but his eyes have changed colour, just a little. She knows what every shade means. This particular one, bluer than usual, brighter, means that the penny has finally dropped. His face is ashen, his jaw slack, and Molly knows he doesn't want it to be true. He shakes his head, just a little.

"No."

"Yes," Molly whispers.

"_No_."

Molly doesn't repeat herself. She doesn't need to.

"Why?" he demands, his voice cold.

"How many times did I save your life, back in the early days?" Tears are falling freely down her face now, and she doesn't bother to wipe them away. It's time he realised just how much he means to her. It's also time he realised just what he's put her through over the last fifteen years.

"I lost count," Sherlock confesses, staring at the ceiling. "Too many times, probably."

"And who would have been there if I hadn't?"

Sherlock's answer is so quick, and so honest, that it shatters Molly's heart.

"No one."

"Promise me we'll never be here again," Molly pleads, her voice growing stronger. She leans forward in her chair, still gripping onto Sherlock's hand desperately, with both of hers now. "Promise me I will never have to resuscitate you ever again."

"You never had to in the first place."

"You know what I'm asking." She sits back in her seat, Sherlock's hand falling from her own, and at last he meets her gaze.

"I can't promise anything."

"No one can promise that they won't _die_."

"Look, everyone thinks I'm dead anyway, so I won't _have_ to die for the foreseeable future."

"But what about after that?" Molly argues. "What about when you're back from the dead and the press are all over you again, and Kitty _fucking_ Riley is begging you for the exclusive interview? What then? What about when the next Moriarty comes along because he thinks he's cleverer, or stronger, or more powerful? What then?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Sherlock says, his shoulders shrugging slightly.

Molly fixes him with a hard stare, and, for the first time, she witnesses Sherlock squirm uncomfortably.

"I can't stop," he says at last.

"I'm not asking you to."

"I can..._try_ to be more careful."

Silence.

"I _will_ be more careful."

"Good." Molly takes his hand once more and he responds immediately to the touch, holding on tightly to her as though she is his anchor to life. And, she supposes, in some ways she is.

"I just..." she begins, but she doesn't know how to explain herself. She has no right to tell him how to live his life, and it _shouldn't_ be her problem if he winds up killing himself, and yet it is. "I just need you," she finishes, heat rising unpleasantly in her cheeks.

"No you don't," Sherlock sighs. "I'm the last thing you need."

Molly shakes her head.

"Edinburgh, Molly! Edinburgh! How could you turn that down?"

"Because I'd never have forgiven myself if you'd died while I was five hundred miles away!"

"You see?" Sherlock says quietly, reaching out for her hand. "You don't need me. Not even a millionth as much as I need you."

Molly blinks the tears from her eyes and swallows, trying to process Sherlock's words. She doesn't want to cry in front of him. She hates crying in front of him - he just doesn't _get it_. She stands, and Sherlock's eyes follow her.

"Don't go!" He blurts it out and Molly freezes, looking down at him. He seems to regret speaking before thinking, but Molly thinks he should do it more often. It's part of being human, after all, and it's a particular part that Molly has turned into an art.

"I was just going to make some tea," she says lamely, gesturing towards the door.

"Don't go," he says, more softly this time. He reaches out for her hand. Molly has nothing to say, and so she allows him to pull her over to the bed, so she can lie next to him, his arms wrapped tightly around her small frame. She can feel herself succumbing to sleep, the regular movement of Sherlock's chest behind her a constant comfort. She can feel his breath on the back of her neck, and she knows, at last, that if she goes to sleep now, he will be fine in the morning.

"Molly?"

She doesn't open her eyes, but issues a soft "Mmm?" in response.

"You won't leave me, will you? Ever?"

"No," Molly sighs softly. "Never."

"Good," he replies. "That's good."

* * *

**The End.**


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